The Red Incident.
Two hours after you were born your father and I debated over which middle name we should give you.
Louise or Lucille.
Louise was just a name we liked. Lucille was chosen after my favorite TV role model of all time, Lucille Ball.
Somehow we just knew that Lucille would be the right name for you. Unfortunately I didn’t anticipate exactly how intricate your hijinks would be. I’m almost afraid to say you’re going to surpass Lucille Ball’s ridiculousness if we keep going at this rate.
Every day it’s some new disaster.
Today it was paint.
Now before I tell you this you have to understand that you’re fast. So quick as a matter of fact that if I so much as pee for one minute in the bathroom with the door open I can guarantee you’ll be creating havoc when I come rushing out.
I used to hear stories like these and think to myself, “Oh clearly their parents just weren’t watching close enough. I watch my kids well, they’ll never do something like that.”
Oh how fate laughed in my face. As a matter of fact forget laughter, fate might have spit in my face and rubbed it in a little.
Ada…you bring the humble pie to my parenting ego, that’s for sure.
This afternoon I was painting the chicken coops dark red. When I came to a stopping point I hammered the lid on the paint can extra tight. I didn’t want an animal to knock the gallon of paint over, or God forbid a kid to get the lid off.
I put the paint can on the picnic table outside with the flat head screw driver and hammer next to it. I left the new paint brush out there too, still in the package.
After supper I was cleaning up food that a certain baby flung across the kitchen. Rosie wanted to go outside and play, so I sent you two out into the backyard. I kept glancing out the window every thirty seconds to be sure nothing bad was happening.
While I was decrusting dishes in the sink, not three minutes after you’d gone outside, I suddenly heard Rosie shrieking. She came flying in the back door, panting and red faced.
“Ada is taking the lid off of the paint can!”
There’s no way she would be able to actually get it off, I thought to myself.
I calmly walked outside and happened upon carnage.
Red paint smeared EVERYWHERE.
A red baby running across the yard flinging a red coated paint brush wildly, dancing and laughing with absolute glee.
Red baby shoes. Red splattered little dress. Red chickens. Red grass.
Red drops quickly drying all over my meticulously painted chicken coops.
In these sorts of situations my brain just sort of goes blank. I imagine I look like a cartoon character with red exclamation marks and question marks flashing above my head.
Ada. Sometimes I yell at you. I’m sorry. It’s either yell or lay down on the ground curled up in a fetal position and cry.
Usually I yell, “Why Ada, why?”
You repeat me now, but in your happy sing song voice, marching around flinging paint with a grin on your face singing, “Why Ada, WHY?”
I don’t know why, baby. Why can you climb up on top of the picnic table in a flash then use tools to pry open a paint can? Sweetheart, THAT’S NOT NORMAL. Your sister never did things like that. Ever.
I recently found a solid gray hair in my pony tail.
I’m just hazarding a guess here, but I’m thinking I could gray at an early age.
Remember baby, you’ll get your payback when you’re a parent…and this gray haired grandma will be laughing her rear end off.
Your exhausted Momma.