The Terrible Awful

If you've read, "The Help", then you just got a smile on your face from my post title.  If not, you should totally read it.

I want super double kudos for not killing my child.

I didn't even beat her.

I didn't even yell at her.

A part of me, the part that dwells in denial better than any Egyptian, wants to believe that she was truly remorseful.

When she came into my room to wake me up from my nap (number one reason why this was all my fault) should have been an indication that guilt was guiding her actions.

"I'm here to confess, mother.  I'm here to tell you everything and beg for your forgiveness.  I'm not worthy.  I'm not worthy."

I could already smell it on her.  It was all over her hands, all over the brand new dress  I had just purchased the night before.  (Yet another reason I should get double kudos, but it gets better, reader.  Oh, it gets much better.)

So I drag my exhausted toosh out of bed, prepared to slowly but surely clean her hands of all the nail polish.  The dress was a lost cause and would join the cemetery of other garments destroyed by the little imp.

There it was.  I think my heart stopped.  14 bottles of nail polished rested on a towel on the *gasp* couch.  But oh, blessed day, they were on the towel.  I didn't yell.  I didn't go in search of the leather whip.  There was a little bit on the arm rest, but, shoot, I could clean that off easy peasy.  Japanesey.  

I gathered the towel with all the nail polish, and as I pick it up, I feel the unmistakable tug and look beneath the tomb stone to find all 14 bottles worth of nail polish DUMPED on the couch.

This, of course, was after an hour or so of trying to clean it off with nail polish.  Once I started seeing visions,  I opened the window and fled to my moms house.  It was safer if there were witnesses.  I couldn't do anything too drastic.

We now refer to the incident as "The Terrible Awful".  All I have to say to her is, "No, you can't watch a movie.  You're in trouble.  Remember The Terrible Awful?"  And she bows her head in shame and remorse.  She's a fine actress.

Anyway, I want those kudos.  I didn't even yell at the child.  But then, can I really blame her?

1) I shouldn't have been napping.  No matter how exhausted I was, I know my daughter.

2)  She's 4.  I really don't know how much I should expect out of a 4 year old.  I do know that if she does it again, she's going to an all girls catholic school on the Eastern seaboard.  

3) She came to get me.  I'd like to think she was remorseful and felt guilty.  I think I'll hold on to that, or sanity sake.

4)  I couldn't speak to her afterward.  I was so upset.  So after about an hour of the silent treatment, she was coming to me with meek, "I love you, mommy"'s and melt-your-angry-heart hugs.

I also called Brett to talk me down.  It helped redirect my anger 1,000 miles south when he said, "Can't you just clean it with some nail polish?"

Oooh, can I?  I've been waiting for a reason to soak my arms up to my elbows with acetone!!  SUPER!!

Whats that you say?  It's only going to take 12 hours, in one hour increments, to make even  a DENT in the mess?

FANTASTIC!!

What do you mean I shouldn't beat her with a cane?  She's only four?  She'll make much worse mistakes than this?

I CAN'T WAIT!