My young Jackson Pollock

Today Kate walked into the bathroom, where I was shaving and asked to take a shower. She sometimes wants to take a shower when she is cold. So, I glanced at her and asked if she wanted to warm up, to which she replied, "No daddy, I need to get the paint off me." Hearing the word paint caused my arm to inadvertently jerk, giving myself a nice nick with my razor.

"Paint? Kate where did you find paint?"

"In the bathroom, daddy."

Bathroom...bathroom... I could not figure out what paint would be in the bathroom. I looked down and saw Kate's fingers and toes messily painted green.

"What the flip, Kate. What's on your fingers?"

"Nail polish."

"Where did you get green nail polish?"

"In my bathroom daddy." Kate looked at me as if to say, What a dumb question. Where else do you keep nail polish.

"But daddy, I don't want it on me any more. Can I take a shower to get it off?"

"Kate...did you make a mess?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is it the kind of mess that will make mommy upset?" (The girls have developed a clear understanding of what is acceptable to Mommy in terms of messes they can make, which is pretty much no mess.)

"Uh-huh"

Forgetting about my bleeding, half-shaved, face, I ran to Madison's and Kate's bathroom to find the sink, counter, and mirror, covered in a Jackson Pollock inspired splattering of green nail polish.

***I will take this moment to mention that Shelly was not home, and it is debatable who this benefited more, me or Kate. I am pretty sure, if she was home, Kate and I would have been sent out of the house immediately, half naked, bleeding and covered in nail polish.***

"Kate, this is not good."

"Daddy I want to take a shower."

"Kate you know you are not suppose to play in the medicine cabinet."

"Okay daddy, can I take a shower."

Obviously, not sinking in. "Yes Kate you can take a shower."

I showered Kate, which did nothing to remove the nail polish, and then proceeded to clean the bathroom -and Kate- with a bottle of acetone.

You might wonder why I didn't get more upset at Kate. When I was somewhere around her age, I remember painting the mom's bathroom mirror with red nail polish. I like to think that I wrote something endearing like "I love mommy" or painted a large heart, though I am pretty sure I just tried to paint the whole mirror red. What I am sure of is that the mess my parents cleaned up was ten times worse, and probably permanently damaging, compared to Kate's fiasco. I also cannot remember if my parents punished me, but I figured what goes around comes around.