Scene: Disaster

Working the evening shift at a local hospital, I arrive home rather late.

Midnight on a good night, but in some cases I don't get home until

almost 1 a.m. like last night. Needing to "wind down" I had a snack

and watched a bit of TV, tucking myself into bed by 2 a.m. At 5 something

in the morning a thunderstorm rolled through the area with fierce 

thunderclaps that sent my almost 4 year old scurrying to our bed. 

Being quite the wiggle worm, I didn't really sleep until she told

my husband (who gets up for work super early) that she was going

back to her own bed. This was a first. I was mildly suspicious of 

her too-good-to-be true claim she that she was going back to sleep,

but in my sleepy stupor, I assured myself that all would be well.

Cut to 8:30 a.m. A little face appears in my blurred gaze. Her 

multicolored hands and arms hint to the disaster that awaits

me in the kitchen. "Mommy, I need help painting." Painting...

what? I snapped back into reality instantly and ran to the 

scene of the crime...  . Well painting really isn't a crime, okay

the scene of mayhem. A series of events unfolds in my head.

I see her erasable crayons and corresponding workbooks on

the kitchen table, but all the crayons have been stripped of their

paper wrapping and are broken into pieces from rolling off the 

table and striking the floor. Another coloring/painting book 

rests on the table with fresh paint staining the pages. The 

paint covers the table, and the kitchen towel is suspiciously

blue. 

How did she get all this stuff out of the locked art cabinet? My

eyes dart the art cabinet. The door is wide open; the magnetic

"key" lies on the floor instead of it's usual post on the fridge.

Water is trickling from the kitchen faucet. Her step stool is 

positioned so that she could retrieve a medicine cup to fill

with water for rinsing her paint brush. Yes, there on the table

was a medicine cup filled with multicolored water. 

Amidst the colorful chaos, stood my daughter, her angelic face

and hopeful eyes seemed to wonder what my reaction would be.

I forced myself to look at the bright side. The creativity was 

contained in the kitchen. Thank you, Lord. I simply put all the 
art supplies up, wiped up all the paint, and instructed my daughter 
that she is not to paint without me again. She quickly responded, 
"I'm sorry mom." 

After retrieving my youngest from his crib and making breakfast 
for my two darlings, I called my husband to report on the morning. 
The thunderous laughs from the other end of the line didn't do 
much to comfort, but I had to agree it was funny. I grudgingly 
chuckled and admitted it was a great story.