I offered to watch my three-year-old daughter, Ramanda, so my wife could go out. I was working while she played in another room. When it grew too quiet, I called out, "What are you doing, Ramanda?"
No answer. I repeated my question and heard a faint, "Oh... nothing."
I rushed into the living room just in time to see her dart down the hall. I chased her upstairs, following her little figure as it swerved into a bedroom. Gaining on her, I cornered her in the bathroom. Using my most authoritative voice, I commanded, "Young lady, turn around!"
Slowly, she turned. In her hand was the remains of my wife's new lipstick. Her entire face was smeared with bright red—except her lips.
As she looked up, eyes wide with fear and lips trembling, the scolding words from my own childhood echoed in my mind: "How could you? You should know better!" I was about to unleash them when I glanced at her sweatshirt, put on just an hour before. In bold letters, it proclaimed: "I'M A PERFECT LITTLE ANGEL!"
Looking into her tearful eyes, I no longer saw a disobedient child. I saw a precious little angel, full of worth and spontaneous joy—a spirit I had nearly crushed with shame.
"Sweetheart, you look beautiful!" I said instead. "Let's take a picture for Mommy." I captured the moment, grateful I hadn't missed the chance to affirm the perfect little angel I'd been given.