I have never been particularly good at art. Granted, what I did in October of 2010 would not really count as art, but my young mind found it a masterpiece. Of course, I might’ve been blinded by the fear that I was going to get caught.

Let me back up a bit: I was around five years old. My family and I were living on a small street in Beaverton. I had a one-year-old brother, two loving parents, and a grumpy dog. I might need to mention that I still had no grasp of what was a good idea, and all thoughts I had about my choices would all crash down on me after I had gone through with them. I was also horrible at admitting the fact that I had done something wrong.

One night I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t sure why not, but I was restless and couldn’t close my eyes. My parents had been in a good mood that day, and they had let me have a piece of my dad’s pizza, so I felt obligated to go to sleep like a good child. I remember getting up to get a drink of water and feeling incredibly mature. I was drinking water without being asked! I must have been getting older and wiser. My excitement was short-lived when I went back to my room more awake than I had been before. I went into a brief state of exasperation. I wanted to sleep! Now I was wide awake and very bored. 

I would not be able to explain to you what came over me as my eyes drifted to a box of Crayola crayons that lay on its side in front of my messy closet. I remember being confused at my own excitement seeing the crayons at the ungodly hours of 11 PM. Again, I’ve never been one to necessarily enjoy drawing or even be good at it. But when I picked up those crayons, I knew I was destined for greatness in the Crayola arts committee. I grabbed a piece of paper and got to work, but soon it became clear that the paper was too restricting. How could I paint awe-inspiring pictures that would change the world if my clouds were going off the sides of the paper? I remember a suspenseful pause, the drama amplified by my young age, where my eyes stopped on the white paint covering the wood body of my bed. It was an ‘ah-ha’ moment. This. This was the canvas I needed to begin my artistic journey. As I said before, I didn’t even stop to think that this might not be the best idea. I was too full of unrealistic dreams as I grabbed a yellow crayon. 

The moment the wax made its first mark on the paint, I was hooked. It was the perfect canvas for the rush of ideas I wanted to display. I scribbled for about an hour and a half, using many shades of reds, greens, oranges, and blues. In some moments, I would be disappointed to find that I had covered every empty space of white, only to look closer and find another area I could color. The sheer excitement I had to see the finished product had my stomach jittering with nerves. 

When my hands finally failed me and I couldn’t physically draw anymore, I stepped back to admire my work. And my heart positively stopped. I can’t explain to you the exact emotions that were shooting through my brain at that moment. It looked awful. My imagination had conjured images of beautiful patterns decorating the frames of my bed, colors blending together beautifully. What actually glared back at me was a mess; random lines and marks, ugly color combinations, and mistakes heavily scribbled out. I sighed, dejected. It took me a full, slow-witted second to fully grasp the situation, and when I did, I froze.

The weight of what I had just done hit me like a ton of bricks. Panic like I had never felt before in my five years of life smacked me in the face. All the sadness about the outcome of my art vanished as I started to hyperventilate. Our family had no rules about coloring our beds, but I was pretty sure it was a given. I frantically tried to wipe off the crayon but to no use. The wax stayed put. After pacing for a long time, the exhaustion pulled me into a fitful sleep. 

I woke up with an amazing idea. Well, an amazing idea in my eyes. The perfect lie popped into my head. My reaction was a strange mix of excitement and guilt. The way it played out in my head, my incredible lie would get my baby brother Elijah in trouble, but at least I would be off the hook. I nervously went down the stairs and approached my dad, who was in the kitchen. This was the moment. I could be smart and own up now, and I wouldn’t be punished as severely. But the adrenaline in my brain made it impossible to think deeply about this. 

“Hey dad,” I stepped up to him. “There’s a mess on my bed.” I knew that he wasn’t one to ask for details, and sure enough, he didn’t. He just nodded.

“Ok,” he said. Huh. One down, one to go. I looked for my mom for a while before I found the bathroom door closed.

“Hey, Mom?”

“What,” she deadpanned back at me. And to this moment, I will forever regret my horrible acting skills when I nonchalantly said, 

“Um, Elijah crawled out of his bed and scribbled all over my bed,” I said, proud of myself and my lie. 

“What?”

“Yeah, come and see for yourself,” She came out of the bathroom, and by then I should’ve realized that my story made no sense. My brother was barely old enough to eat properly, let alone climb out of his crib. I should’ve known Mom was already suspicious of me. But I let her follow me up to my room. I opened the door, and, I kid you not, she screamed. She screamed until my dad came bounding up the stairs to see the commotion. My brother started to cry because of all the noise. And then I knew I was in BIG trouble. 

The rest of it is a blur; I got severely punished. There was a lot of crying and begging. But eventually, we sat down to scrub for three hours at my bed with Mr. Clean sponges. There’s always that moment where you know you messed up and you dread being around your angry parents. This was that exact moment. They barely talked to me as they scrubbed furiously, occasionally even whispering to each other.

My family and I still laugh at the decisions I made that day. The fact that I remember this story is proof that it was a big event in my life, even if I was only five. I learned not one but two lessons in that one day. If you know something you plan to do is wrong, take the time to consider it. And when you make a mistake, don’t make up stories and lies about it. Let your friends and family be able to trust you, even if you mess up.