It was supposed to be a quiet Saturday afternoon. Mom had decided that she and her son would spend some quality time together doing something educational: finger painting. She spread newspapers across the kitchen table, opened the paint box, and handed him a clean sheet of paper.

“Today,” she announced, “we’re going to make art.”

Her son stared at the paint. Then at the paper. Then at her.

“Can I use all the colors?”

“Of course.”

“Can I put my hands in the paint?”

“That’s what finger painting means.”

He smiled. Five minutes later, his hands were completely covered in black paint. So was the table. So was his hoodie. And somehow, there was a black fingerprint on the wall.

Mom slowly closed her eyes.

“Baby…”

He looked up innocently.

“Yes?”

“You can’t say those words. Those are grown-up words. We don’t use them.”

The boy looked genuinely confused.

“Then…”

He raised both painted hands.

“…so what CAN’T I say?”

Mom paused. That was a very good question. She sat beside him and took a deep breath.

“You can’t say those words when you’re angry.”

“Okay.”

“You can’t say them when you’re frustrated.”

“Okay.”

“You definitely can’t say them at school.”

“Okay.”

“And you can’t say them when you spill paint all over the floor.”

The boy looked down. There was, in fact, paint all over the floor.

“Okay.”

Mom nodded proudly. “See? Easy.”

The boy considered this for several seconds. Then he pointed at the enormous black handprint covering his paper.

“What if the painting says it?”

Mom stared at him.

“The painting can’t talk.”

“Oh.”

He looked relieved. Then he smiled.

“Good.”

Mom narrowed her eyes.

“Why?”

He lifted his paint-covered hand and proudly slapped it onto the paper.

Smack.

Another perfect handprint.

“Because,” he said, “I still have a lot of things to say.”

Mom couldn’t help herself. She started laughing. The boy laughed too. And by the end of the afternoon, the living room looked like an art studio after a small hurricane. There were fingerprints everywhere. On the paper. On the table. On the hoodie. And, unfortunately, still on the wall.

Mom looked around at the beautiful disaster.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“Maybe we don’t need those bad words.”

The boy nodded.

“We have paint.”

And together, they went back to making art—one messy, colorful, wonderfully expressive handprint at a time.