Then, while I was in the midst of crazy messy loud house and neutralized by baby power (I just can't sit and listen to my babies cry, usually), one of my kids said "Mom, Ava painted on the carpet!" Yes indeed, there was red and black and white paint in swaths and scribbles and dabs and blobs all over the basement carpet. More than anything, I felt like I did not have time to clean this out of the carpet. I actually did bite my tongue, then I did lecture a little, and I did sigh a lot. I didn't smile, either. And I felt like crying, but I didn't do that, either. She seemed penitent, standing there with cute small hands folded together in front of her cotton-pink-flower dress, be-smirched and be-smudged with stripes of red paint on her cheeks, arms, and cute toddler legs. Little brown eyes solemn with pause, waiting carefully to see what I would do.
I realized, then, too, that I'm a big part of the equation, too, having left paints within reach of children and not supervising my child. So, there we were, this time I felt I had to let the baby cry, and cling to me, and crawl through the paint and watery mess as I tried to clean it up. But, I kept my cool. After I had internally calmed down a little, I hugged her, genuinely hugged her, and told her I loved her and that I knew she was sorry. It was a real bonding moment-- I actually felt a huge surge of love for her in that moment, when just a few minutes before what I had been feeling was not exactly so warm and fuzzy. I did make her stay with me until it was cleaned up (I said she could sit in time-out or help me, she did a little of both), just to drive the lesson home so she will (I hope) remember next time not to do that. (me, too, great lesson: an ounce of prevention --in form of putting things out of reach and a little supervision-- is truly worth a pound of cure-- in this case two hours of clean up that still didn't totally remove the stain --these paints were not washable).
In the end, after some space from the moment, I realized that, even though I care about my carpet, it is just carpet. Just a thing, something I can't take with me. My little girl-- her little self esteem needs to last her a long time-- through dating and backbiting friends and rejection and failure and disappointment and loss. I thought of one of my favorite books-- Les Miserables-- and how when Jean Val jean stole one of the bishop's (of Digne) few remaining possessions-- his silver-- the bishop then gave him his candlesticks too. When his housekeeper sighed over the loss, branding valJean a "swine," he replied calmly: "To start with, was the silver really ours?" I need to remember that-- possessions, temporary, not really mine. Child-- this is forever. And often the greatest things we can teach are the things we don't say with our mouth. (Easy to say this now that I'm not on my knees scrubbing red and black paint anymore) And I am learning just as much, if not more, about being a better person from my little people and our challenges than I will ever teach them.
We didn't get to go out like we wanted to, trying to be flexible like I learned last month.
This quote from Les Miserbles by Victor Hugo: Don't forget, don't ever forget, that you promised me to use this silver to make an honest man of yourself.... Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you; I am taking it away from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition, and I am giving it to God. (from the translation by Julie Rose)
