Some of you may have recently seen my Facebook post about my three-year old "decorating" his bedroom and bathroom with the contents of a medium-sized container of baby powder. It took an hour to clean up, learning quickly that baby powder mixed with water creates something similar in consistency to wallpaper glue.
While it was inconvenient, I did have to laugh at the situation. I should have taken pictures; it would make my story that much more compelling.
In an effort to lighten the mood in the teachers lounge at lunchtime, I thought to share my evening's story. In attendance were three other teachers - two of whom have raised children, and one who has never had children.
I received laughs, giggles, and tales from the other mothers as to what their children used to do to their rooms while unsupervised - paint, powder, and poop were all used as artistic mediums.
However, the woman who had never had children of her own looked appalled and disgusted.
"And what exactly was he thinking?" she asked, shaking her head disapprovingly.
"He wasn't. He's three," I answered.
"Well, I know that, but what was his thought process? He must have had one," she begged.
"Like I said, he's three. There was no thought process. He's three," I repeated once more for good measure.
"Ugh, the joys of motherhood, I suppose," she lamented.
And the conversation ended there.
So, I got to thinking.
What had his thought process been? I'm sure my sweet, little, three-year old boy didn't lie awake at night, plotting ways to make my day busier. I'm sure he didn't think to himself, "Wow, my mommy and daddy don't have enough to do, and my room sure could use a cleaning, so let me find the finest substance around that would be the hardest to clean out of carpets and spread it around like snow."
My little man's actions weren't malicious, mean, or vindictive. There was no ulterior motive. There was no revenge. No malice. No hatred. There was no other thought process, other than, "Wow, this is fun." So, while it was inconvenient and landed him in time out with a stern talking to, my heart was melted when upon cleaning the room I had found a spot where he, himself, had tried to begin cleaning his mess.
All I can determine from my co-worker's indignant response is that really, deep down, somewhere, she's envious of the family I have, the memories we are creating, and the laughs that we share. And I'm sorry for her that she'll never experience paint, poop, or powder. But more importantly, I'm sad she'll never enjoy all the joys of motherhood.
