Two weekends ago, I decided I had deprived Sami long enough from the opportunity to paint. Yep. Almost 32 months old and I’ve never let her paint. I’m not a clean freak about her and when she makes messes that make her father cringe, I always gleefully declare things like, “Who cares? It’ll wash off in the tub!” But for some reason, I just hadn’t gotten around to letting her paint.
Then I had included a teeny little egg-shaped and egg-sized palette of watercolors with a teeny brush in her Easter basket. And she was so fascinated by the process that on Saturday I relented and taped a large sheet of brown paper over the entire coffee table top and broke out a strip of washable gel paints with a brush and let her go at it.
Her renderings were actually quite pretty. She didn’t mix the colors into a mishmash, but painted separately with them. Into pretty circles and swirls. And while I watched her and photographed her, I knew I’d be keeping that first piece of artwork as a keepsake.
But then I got preoccupied in the kitchen a few feet away, and when she asked for a wet cloth to clean her fingers I gave it to her. And then about 2 minutes later, when she proudly beamed, “Mom! I keened up!” I looked over – heartbroken – she had taken the cloth and scrubbed her artwork. The paint had still been wet, so it ruined it.
I carefully explained how ‘paintings’ work – how you keep the result to admire and that one doesn’t have to clean up that part of the paintings. I’m always surprised at how often I forget what she doesn’t yet know.
Then I encouraged her to paint me another one on the other end of the paper, and that this one we’d save and hang up on the wall for Daddy to see when he came home from work. And I made a big deal of how much he’d like that.
So she did paint another one, and we did tear it off and hang it on the wall where Daddy couldn’t miss it. The next morning, after we all woke up and went downstairs, Michael made a wonderful big to-do all about her paintings. He pointed out how beautiful her circles were and how some looked like flowers. And he told her how her grandmother had been an artist and would have loved seeing her talents. She was so proud she made her I’m-not-smiling-but-I-can’t-help-it-because-I-feel-so-proud twistmouth smile.
The next day. Again, I am preoccupied doing kitcheny work and realize I’ve lost track of her for about 15 minutes. This isn’t usually a concern. She’s very self-occupied, and usually very conscientious about what she can and cannot get into. She’s generally just not naughty.
So when she came ambling back downstairs, and I could smell something familiar but as yet unplaced in my smell recognition, I said, “What were you doing?” I’m still sniff-sniffing, thinking, “Is that lotion I smell? Or shampoo? What is that?”
And she goes, without a morsel of remorse so I know she didn’t do anything she thought was bad, “I doing paintings.”
Me: Oh? Where did you do that?
Her: I doing paintings. Fwowers. Fwowers onna fwoor.
Me: Hmm. Okay. You painted flowers on the floor?
Her: (happy and proud) Yes!
Me: (calmly thinking she must’ve smeared some toothpaste or shampoo on my bathroom tile) Okay-well. Sounds to me like it is something I should check out.
I head upstairs. I see nothing in the bathroom, but the smell is getting stronger…. On into our big walk-in closet. Oh my. Off white carpet. Purple. Brown. Dark red. Dark blue. Very Jackson Pollock. Medium? Fingernail polish. Lots of it. (Let’s not even discuss why a self-respecting 44 year old woman owns purple, blue, and brown nail polish, shall we?)
She’s so proud and so naïve of the fact that it is something even remotely bad so I am gentle with her. I say, “Oh my Sami. This isn’t good. We only paint on paper when Mommy gives you permission. This is on Mommy’s carpet and has made a horrible mess.”
When it starts to sink in to her, you can just see her wilt and it breaks my heart to watch.
She offers, “Mommy keen it up?” I shake my head and tell her this isn’t like that. That it may never clean up.
It was killing me, but I knew I had a duty to make her understand. I never lost my temper, but I explained in detail how this was not like her other paints. And I told her it made me very sad that she had done this thing. I also told her I would have to tell Daddy.
He called a little later, and I did tell him. And he was upset about it without having even seen it. Uncharacteristically and without really thinking he goes, “Did you spank her?” Um. No. I don’t spank. At least I haven’t so far into her upbringing. I think there may be a time for it, but I haven’t found that time yet. Hitting just has never seemed to be an answer. Especially not for a child like Sami that exhibits such a strong self-conscience. Anyway, I remind him, the carpet was already trashed by The Damn Dog during pre-housebroken times.
After I hang up with him, I find Sami and tell her that I told Daddy. I tell her Daddy was very sad. She gravely says, “Like Mommy?” Yes, honey. We’re both very sad about this.
Later while she was napping, I tried any number of household products and unbelievably found one that seemed to work. I didn’t have much of it left, but what I had seemed to prove that with a lot of spraying, scrubbing, blotting, and elbow-grease, we could eventually reduce it to no worse a smudge than other lovely areas of our carpet.
So when Sami woke up, I told her, “Guess what? Momma found something that will clean the carpet.” I know she knew what I meant and I could see her begin to feel better about the matter.
She went with me to get more of the cleanser yesterday, and we tested it when we got home to see if it was still as effective a full week later--with the nail polish fully dried and cured--and amazingly it still works. I can only tolerate doing small patches at a time because of the fumes. But we’ll get it gone.
Then I had included a teeny little egg-shaped and egg-sized palette of watercolors with a teeny brush in her Easter basket. And she was so fascinated by the process that on Saturday I relented and taped a large sheet of brown paper over the entire coffee table top and broke out a strip of washable gel paints with a brush and let her go at it.
Her renderings were actually quite pretty. She didn’t mix the colors into a mishmash, but painted separately with them. Into pretty circles and swirls. And while I watched her and photographed her, I knew I’d be keeping that first piece of artwork as a keepsake.
But then I got preoccupied in the kitchen a few feet away, and when she asked for a wet cloth to clean her fingers I gave it to her. And then about 2 minutes later, when she proudly beamed, “Mom! I keened up!” I looked over – heartbroken – she had taken the cloth and scrubbed her artwork. The paint had still been wet, so it ruined it.
I carefully explained how ‘paintings’ work – how you keep the result to admire and that one doesn’t have to clean up that part of the paintings. I’m always surprised at how often I forget what she doesn’t yet know.
Then I encouraged her to paint me another one on the other end of the paper, and that this one we’d save and hang up on the wall for Daddy to see when he came home from work. And I made a big deal of how much he’d like that.
So she did paint another one, and we did tear it off and hang it on the wall where Daddy couldn’t miss it. The next morning, after we all woke up and went downstairs, Michael made a wonderful big to-do all about her paintings. He pointed out how beautiful her circles were and how some looked like flowers. And he told her how her grandmother had been an artist and would have loved seeing her talents. She was so proud she made her I’m-not-smiling-but-I-can’t-help-it-because-I-feel-so-proud twistmouth smile.
The next day. Again, I am preoccupied doing kitcheny work and realize I’ve lost track of her for about 15 minutes. This isn’t usually a concern. She’s very self-occupied, and usually very conscientious about what she can and cannot get into. She’s generally just not naughty.
So when she came ambling back downstairs, and I could smell something familiar but as yet unplaced in my smell recognition, I said, “What were you doing?” I’m still sniff-sniffing, thinking, “Is that lotion I smell? Or shampoo? What is that?”
And she goes, without a morsel of remorse so I know she didn’t do anything she thought was bad, “I doing paintings.”
Me: Oh? Where did you do that?
Her: I doing paintings. Fwowers. Fwowers onna fwoor.
Me: Hmm. Okay. You painted flowers on the floor?
Her: (happy and proud) Yes!
Me: (calmly thinking she must’ve smeared some toothpaste or shampoo on my bathroom tile) Okay-well. Sounds to me like it is something I should check out.
I head upstairs. I see nothing in the bathroom, but the smell is getting stronger…. On into our big walk-in closet. Oh my. Off white carpet. Purple. Brown. Dark red. Dark blue. Very Jackson Pollock. Medium? Fingernail polish. Lots of it. (Let’s not even discuss why a self-respecting 44 year old woman owns purple, blue, and brown nail polish, shall we?)
She’s so proud and so naïve of the fact that it is something even remotely bad so I am gentle with her. I say, “Oh my Sami. This isn’t good. We only paint on paper when Mommy gives you permission. This is on Mommy’s carpet and has made a horrible mess.”
When it starts to sink in to her, you can just see her wilt and it breaks my heart to watch.
She offers, “Mommy keen it up?” I shake my head and tell her this isn’t like that. That it may never clean up.
It was killing me, but I knew I had a duty to make her understand. I never lost my temper, but I explained in detail how this was not like her other paints. And I told her it made me very sad that she had done this thing. I also told her I would have to tell Daddy.
He called a little later, and I did tell him. And he was upset about it without having even seen it. Uncharacteristically and without really thinking he goes, “Did you spank her?” Um. No. I don’t spank. At least I haven’t so far into her upbringing. I think there may be a time for it, but I haven’t found that time yet. Hitting just has never seemed to be an answer. Especially not for a child like Sami that exhibits such a strong self-conscience. Anyway, I remind him, the carpet was already trashed by The Damn Dog during pre-housebroken times.
After I hang up with him, I find Sami and tell her that I told Daddy. I tell her Daddy was very sad. She gravely says, “Like Mommy?” Yes, honey. We’re both very sad about this.
Later while she was napping, I tried any number of household products and unbelievably found one that seemed to work. I didn’t have much of it left, but what I had seemed to prove that with a lot of spraying, scrubbing, blotting, and elbow-grease, we could eventually reduce it to no worse a smudge than other lovely areas of our carpet.
So when Sami woke up, I told her, “Guess what? Momma found something that will clean the carpet.” I know she knew what I meant and I could see her begin to feel better about the matter.
She went with me to get more of the cleanser yesterday, and we tested it when we got home to see if it was still as effective a full week later--with the nail polish fully dried and cured--and amazingly it still works. I can only tolerate doing small patches at a time because of the fumes. But we’ll get it gone.
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