The spot on the rug
“What’s that on the rug?” I demanded in the irritated mommy voice that
frightens and sends kids running. My daughter just whiningly stared at me,
almost afraid to speak. When she did start to offer an explanation, I cut her
off. “How many times have I told you not to bring those paint pots into your
room? Do you know how much this carpet costs? You’d better do something
to wash out that stain right now, OK?”
Her eyes began to well up with tears, and I knew she felt bad about spilling
the paint, but I was very angry. Contemplating the best way to extract red
watercolor from a beige carpet, I headed downstairs for some cleaning
products and towels without taking notice that she still trembled in the
corner.
When I returned, she was rubbing the stains with a tissues. Now the carpet
was flecked with little pieces of white. “That’s OK, honey, I’ll do that,” I
pretended to be strict, then I sat down and started to remove the stain. “What
a mess,” I kept on muttering. As I scrubbed, I tried to explain to my daughter
why she couldn’t paint in her room. Just in case it wasn’t clear, I have to take
more explanation. “You can paint just in the kitchen.”
After dinner, I told her to take a bath, brush her teeth, and head to her room
for bed. “I’ll be right there to tuck you in,” I assured her. Even though she
knew how to read, each night I used to read a portion of a chapter book to
her till she felt into her sleep. That night we read and laughed about the silly
antics of the naughty children in the story. I seemed to forget all the things
happened in the morning.
Though I switched off her lamp, we could still see by the light coming from
the hall. As I leaned down to give her a hug and a kiss, then she pulled out a
piece of paper from under her pillow. I briefly saw a giant, red heart was
painted on it. Below the heart, she had carefully written “I love you,
Mommy”. The incomplete handwritings of my daughter - only a sevenyears-
