Do You Want Your Palm Red?

Or pajamas, in this case. But I get ahead of myself.

Tuesday morning had a very interesting start. The kids were up bright and early, and I was getting some extra sleep in the living room. I could hear them playing downstairs. They have a playroom downstairs, opposite from a storage room that they are not supposed to play in. They have been very good to keep out of there, execpt for the day before, when they had been chased out. I assumed that they were playing nicely in their playroom.

You can already see where this is going, can't you?

I start to make the journey back from nap time to coherence. I see Lizzie come into the room. She has a spot of something by her lips. I squint at her with my glasses-less vision in the pre-dawn darkness of the room and say, "Have you been eating blueberries or something?" She toddles off.

A minute later, I hear Jayson coming up the stairs, whining about something that Esther has done. Not screaming bloody murder, but not happy either. As he comes in the room, the first thing I see is big red spots on his pajamas. Instantly, I am awake, thinking he has blood all over him. But he's not screaming. I take a close look, and realize that it is not blood, but paint. Model paint. The only model paint in the house that I am aware of is in the downstairs storage room. The room where the children are not supposed to play. The room they got caught in and evicted from the previous day.

Instantly, I know a little girl that is in big trouble. I call Esther upstairs, and as I come to the top of the stairs, I see her come out of the forbidden room, paint on both hands. I haven't been this angry since she was little and was whacking her baby brother with her hands. I yell loudly and send her, crying, to her room. I go downstairs to check out the damages.

It looks worse than it is. Several things have paint on them, including a photo frame that we have never used (it is covered in yellow model paint) and a number of papers destined for the filing cabinet (fortunately nothing critical). The carpet has paint in a number of spots. Fortunately, this carpet was probably old in the 70's, so if there's a spot they have to paint, that is the one.

I go back upstairs and retrieve Esther from her room. As I sit her down in my lap, I only want to know one thing. Why did she go into the room and play with things she knows she's not supposed to play with? She answers with her typical "I don't know." I inform her that that is not an acceptable answer this time and repeat the question. She says that she just wanted to paint a picture.

I take the opportunity to explain that there are differences between Daddy's model paints and the paints that she uses. I also remind her that there are other things in the storage room that could hurt her or her siblings (fortunately, the model paint I have is non-toxic). I remind her that as the oldest, the other two will follow her example.

And finally and most importantly, I reminder her that I love her and always will, no matter what her choices are. I may not always agree with, accept, or love her choices, but nothing will ever change my love for her (or for her siblings or mother, for that matter).

As I reflect back now several days later, things could have been a lot worse. Next to the model paint jars was a jar of plastic welder (which is most definitely NOT non-toxic). That stuff is bad news. Fortunately, it was untouched by the kids. The carpet is the oldest in the house. Jayson's pajamas were a bit small anyway, and were due to go in the trash before they got painted. And most of the non-toxic model paint came off that same day, either with rubbing alcohol, or in a good, hot bath later that night. The only remnants of the children's experiments are a little bit of paint on fingernails, on the carpet downstairs, and on a handful of non-cricial papers.

This was one of my first experiences of the sort that every parent goes through. Sometimes children have to make mistakes in order to learn and grow. And it helps the parents to grow as well.