"Boy, if you don't clean that room, I'm going to beat you. Do you understand me?" I try to sound stern, but I think I come across more as defeated. It is already 12 o'clock on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in late September, the kind of afternoon that begs you to come out and play. My five-year-old son, Kane, has been cleaning his room since Friday night, and the really frustrating part is that it isn't even that messy. It should take him all of twenty minutes—that is if he would just go in there and get busy, but he has his mama's ability to entertain himself. This is definitely history reenacted. As I say those words to him, I can hear my mother saying the same thing to me 27 years earlier as I lay on my bedroom floor marveling at the fibers of split-pea-soup-green carpet. I wonder how they twisted all those little hairs together, and how they got those tiny fibers to stick together without moving or falling off—oh, look over there—there’s a little spider. See how he bobs when he walks? I wonder why he does it. Is he doing spider push-ups? I stand up, mimicking the spider, and bounce like I am a little basketball and someone is dribbling me ever so slowly to the hoop. Is it a girl spider or a boy spider?
I am torn. How can I get upset with Kane when he is exactly like me? I understand him. He is me. When other parents see it as being difficult, I see it as the innocent, inquisitiveness of a five-year-old trying to find the answers to everything he sees and finding beauty and intricacy in all the things we take for granted as adults: the way the dust settles on the carpet behind the bed; the chip of paint, missing from the door frame, a chip so small you can't see it unless you are laying on the floor and looking at a 45 degree angle; and all the wonderful zoo animals formed by the texture on the walls when you just sort of stare off and let your eyes go lazy. But, nevertheless, I still need him to learn how to be responsible and clean up the messes he makes.
I walk back into the living room to finish cleaning the house, and decide to put another CD in the stereo. I look through my two hundred plus CDs and can't decide what I want to listen to. I take each one out and read the song lists, searching for a CD that will bring back memories of happy times and that will motivate me. And while I am doing this, I am contemplating my next course of action with Kane if he still hasn't made progress on his bedroom. Should I take his Batman toys away? Maybe I will tell him he will be grounded if he doesn't have it done by 2 o'clock. My mind wanders back and forth between my disciplinarian actions with Kane and the alphabetizing of my CDs. After all, if they are in alphabetical order, they will be easier to find next time.
Before I can go back in and check on Kane's progress, he comes running down the hall shouting in an elated voice, "Mom! Mom! Look! I drew you a picture. Do you want to see it?"
My first inclination is to tell him no, and to go back into his room and finish cleaning, but his grin is as big as a banana, and his eyes have excitement dancing in them as if he has just discovered buried treasure.
"Okay. You can show Mama the picture, but then you need to finish cleaning your room," I say this trying to sound somewhat authoritarian. Kane climbs up on my lap and begins to describe his work of art to me.
"Look, I drew a house. That's our house—that’s the window, that's the door, that's the door knock, (he will argue until he is red with frustration that it is a door knock and not a door knob), and that's the sidewalk. See, there are some birds--five birds because I am five. And that is a flower growing on the top of the roof. That's kinda silly, huh?" He giggles and grins even bigger when he tells me about the flower on the roof. And, I just look at him with amazement and wonder at how I have been blessed with such a wonderful child with such a sweet and beautiful spirit.
“That is the chimney, but I couldn't draw the bricks, so I drew squares. That is smoke, but it isn't real smoke. It's pretend smoke. Those are clouds, but they aren't rain clouds. They are white clouds. That is the grass, and that is the dirt. You have to have the dirt so the grass won't fall down. There is the sun, but I didn't make it yellow because I used a pen, and the pen was only blue, but the sun isn't really blue. Those are train tracks. Mama, I like trains. Do you like trains? And that is you. You are holding a flower because you like flowers. You love flowers, don't you, Mama? See, and you are smiling. You are smiling because you are happy. You are so happy because you have a flower. And that is me. I am doing my Winnie the Pooh puzzle and putting it away."
All I can do is look at his drawing with the same admiration as if I am looking at a Renoir painting. I look at Kane and I look at his masterpiece again. I feel my eyes becoming moist. "Honey, I love it. It is a beautiful picture. Thank you for drawing such a lovely picture for me. You did a great job, and you drew it with so much detail."
"Mom, what does that mean? What is dee-tail?" I explain detail to Kane and then ask him if he has finished cleaning his room.
"Oh, I forgot to clean my room, but I will, Mama. I'll do it right now." I think about it. I have lost almost two days with my beautiful, precious baby. I will have to go to work tomorrow, and I won’t have an opportunity like this again until next weekend. We have the rest of our lives to clean, but only a moment to enjoy the beauty of the world through his five-year-old eyes.
"Tell you what, baby. You go in there and get your shoes on while I look for a frame for this beautiful picture you drew."
"Do I still have to clean my room?"
"You still have to clean your room, but not right now. How about if we go to the park, and when we get home, I will help you clean your room?"
"ALL RIGHT! We're going to the park, Mom?"
"Yes, we are going to the park, and don't think you hornswaggled me, because you didn't." I laugh as I say that to him. I know he indeed hornswaggled me. He pulled a fast one on me whether he meant to or not. But, he also taught me a valuable lesson--the mess will always be there, but the innocence and the excitement he has when he sees the world around him will fade too fast. I may be his mother, but that doesn't give me the right to break his beautiful, inquisitive, and innocent little spirit.
"I love you, my son." Kane looks at me and smiles at me with a huge toothless smile.
"I love you too, Mama."