For a long time I have been surprised that we have been able to avoid many of the typical kid disasters. We have yet to end up in the ER as a result of an accident, and while the boys had committed some minor infractions with crayons, pencils or markers, they had never launched a large-scale attack on the house. Until last week.
I might have known that if one of my kids were to make the foray into more serious damage it would be Paul, he of the maniacal laugh and sh*t-eating grin. The child delights in being naughty. I had left him downstairs for a few minutes while I changed Gus upstairs. "Mommy!" he called. "I want to paint." By the time I got to the top of the stairs, I saw it. Pinkish-red paint smeared all over the wall. As I descended the steps, I took in the full scene. Paint all over his pants, creating the impression that he had maimed himself; blobs decorated a chair, the floor and a few toys. "Paul, what did you do?" I gasped.
I was surprised and slightly bemused. But the damage was done. The paint, left out from a school project Ben had worked on the day before, came out fairly easily. The wall will, however, need to be touched up. Faded pink streaks remain. Paul and I have talked at length about the proper place to apply paint. "On paper!" he shouts with glee. Somehow I don't think we're out of the danger zone, though.
1 comment:
That's the kind of stuff that terrifies me about parenthood. I know that logically the private, tender, joyful moments must outweigh the disasters, but surely the disasters are much more visible. I'm enjoying your blog.
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