if i wasn’t a nurse, i probably would’ve been a makeup artist. blowing money on expensive brushes and palettes and mastering the crucial skill of winged eyeliners.

but i’m not. i can’t afford to buy high-end beauty products when there are bills to pay and i’d much rather work on my CPR skills, god forbid i would ever have to use it one day.

and so last week, after working three days straight and feeling guilty about not having spent as much time with her as i should because all i wanted to do when i got home was crash (read: sit on the corner and crochet my brains out), i lived vicariously through my little 3-year old. even if it was only for 10 minutes. 15 max, because she said i wasn’t pretty yet and still needed more finishing touches here and there.

i watched her dip the brush into the pans with the gentleness of a digger truck scooping earth from the ground. i was nervous and excited at the same time, although not exactly in equal proportion.

uh oh, here we go.

sure, the amount of powdery fallout was enough to give me an eye infection but the look on her face as she eagerly rubbed the bristles on my eyelids and cheeks — priceless.

and, yeah, if i were a makeup artist, this is probably what you’d end up looking like too:

*raven at 3 years old