Now Manuel can play

“Manuel spilt a whole bowl of soup today! I try to educate him but for now, I guess he is too little to pick up on my reproaches. What I was one-year-old I bet I didn’t listen to my parents either! - laughter emoji, laughter emoji.

Has your child ever done this? I try to remain calm and teach him instead of carelessly screaming at him, he will understand, he will grow up. I really hope he didn’t burn himself too much, that soup was so hot! – despair emoji.  I would love to know if you had a similar experience with your child. How did you react to it? Tell me your spilly adventures in the comments!” ... And posted.

Manuel had been crying the whole time. The soup bowl content was boiling hot, and he spilt it all over his hands. He will have to get medicated for the burns. I took some more pictures of him before taking him off from the highchair. There are never enough angles from which I can take the same picture, and I need to offer the best content I can master. When picking Manuel up I couldn’t help a gulp of disgust when I touched the gloopy soup that was covering his body. I could clearly see why he was crying; I would have cried too in that situation.

“Maddie please come here,” I asked my assistant handing over the

baby. “Make sure he is clean and happy before the afternoon shooting,” I asked with a distinct tone, the same one my mother used with me when I was little.

Maddie walked away answering something that sounded like “clean this mess you dirty child”. I could still picture her impenetrable look of disgust when she screamed at me how bad I had behaved. I could not spill a single drop without hearing a piercing note of her voice that shouted my name: “Maia! Look at what you just did! Clean your own mess you dirty child, or I’ll have to shave your head off!”. Manuel was so lucky in comparison. He was able to get dirty and actually play, enjoying the freedom of being his age, without any responsibility.

I looked at the dirty highchair and a new choking sound left my

mouth. Why did children have to be so disgusting? "Can someone come to clean this mess?" I asked my crew. They were helping me in the living room, setting up all kinds of fun games for Manuel to play with. One of my assistants came over and patiently cleaned the high chair and floor. I left him to it without bothering to thank him, he was paid for a reason.

Maddie came back holding Manuel. He was laughing. She was a much better mother than I was. I wish I could give her my child to let him grow away from me. 

“The set of the shooting is ready” she informed me while teasing

the baby.

I silently followed them into the living room, glancing at Manuel’s clean outfit to make sure it was proper. I almost fainted when I

realised what he was wearing.

My child was wrapped in a delicate silk tunic that dated back to

my school days. It was the uniform that marked my freedom from the everlasting perfect image I had to hold up at home. It disturbed me so deeply he was wearing the only item of clothing I could associate with happiness in my childhood of abuse.

“Go change him” I ordered Maddie without giving her any explanation. The sentence required no objection. I wanted Manuel to have his own happiness. He could have everything I had not had, and I couldn’t cope with the idea he could possess the only ray of hope that sparked into my life in those dark times.

In those unbearable evenings when my mother locked me up in my room or left me without dinner because I misbehaved, I had nothing but my uniform to remember me that an escape was possible. I crawled under my bed wrapped in the soft silk and waited for the time to pass, eager to leave. I didn’t even wear a pyjama to bed. It scared me. I wanted to make sure I was ready to leave in the morning. Ready to escape my prison.

I wanted to address the uniform accident in my blog, but how could I show this without revulsion? I took a selfie where I showed the most condescending face I could master and wrote:

“I just tried dressing my son in one of my old uniforms. He looked so ridiculous I won’t even bother showing you. I want my baby to look as lovely as he can! Some things are better in the past where they belong” … and posted.

I approached the shooting set still fuming, looking over the

toys Manuel will have played with. They looked pretty, all clean and

impeccable. This was too clean for a child. He couldn’t have ever kept them looking this intact. I held up a plushie and tore apart its head, went over to a pirate boat's Lego construction, and smashed it on the floor. Every item in that set remembered me of everything I didn’t have as a child, of everything I had to fight for every single day. Everything was too proper and too neat for a child to play with, so I took care of it. After all, it was a mother’s duty to assure her child’s wellbeing.

By the time Manuel was brought back, there wasn’t a single toy I

hadn’t destroyed. The living room looked like a battlefield where I had to fight against those shiny toys. I won.

“I decided to make the set more realistic, it is impossible for a child to play in an environment that. He needs to be surrounded by some mess.” I told the people that set up the set. Was it an explanation? An excuse? It didn’t matter.  

“Now Manuel can play” I grinned.