A Well-Disciplined Child

A child peers through glass at the world outdoors. A parent stands beside, watching, waiting. “What is that, Mommy?”
“It is a bird, dear – a flower – a cloud – a tree.” The child asks continually. The world is beautiful.
“Mommy, what about that!?” and a chubby finger, pointing, touches the glass.
“That is a mess. Look at the fingerprints on our window.” Rub her nose in it: bad girl. “This is what happens to little girls who make messes.”

The child peers through smudged glass at the world outdoors. The parent stands and waits, tense, frowning at the smear. “What is that, Mommy?”
“I don’t know. What are you pointing at this time? Do not touch the glass.”
Too late. Endeavoring to identify the object in question, the pointing finger has touched the cold surface and quickly recoiled. Her head is lowered.
“I told you!” Slap the hand. “No, no, no!” Take the hand and press the palm against the glass, swiping across the fingerprint and yesterday’s noseprint, leaving a long arc of slightly greasy curiosity dying on its surface. “See how ugly that is? Don’t be ugly.”

The child, head down, stands at the glass alone. She may have tried to clean it, but without instruction only made more of a mess.
She glances left and right without moving, eyes darting furtively, body tense. Still alone, she dares to look outdoors once more.
Fascinated, she steps forward, transfixed. Eyes wide and sparkling, mouth in a tiny, delighted smile, she licks her thumb and clears a bit of the smudge to see better.
A roar shakes her and she is swept off her feet, turned in the air, and spanked over her mother’s knee. A swat accompanies each word growled through gritted teeth, “DO. NOT. TOUCH. THE. GLASS.” “Now go to your room. And stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

The child, sobbing, stands before the glass in her room. The girl in the mirror looks awful. Ugly. And she is ugly. She does ugly things and makes her mommy upset.
The tears flow harder. She determines to do better. The girl in the mirror locks eyes with hers. The glint of hate has replaced the spark of curiosity. The fixed jaw of determination has clamped shut the open-mouthed wonder. She holds her breath to choke back the last sob. No more. Not again. Not me.
The breath escapes, the tears stop, the shoulders drop ever so slightly. She turns on her heel and rushes to hide in her bed, even to feign sleep.

She usually isn’t ugly when she’s asleep. A well-disciplined child, she.