Spilled Milk and Spoiled Markers: My Marker Misadventure

As a seven-year-old, I had a firm belief in my unparalleled brilliance. The world was my playground, and I was convinced I understood its secrets better than anyone else—especially my parents. And then, in a spectacular display of my so-called brilliance, I messed up, big time.

You see, I was an artist in my younger days (or so I thought), and markers of all sorts were my tools of genius. My father had these very basic, boring colored pointers—red, blue, green, and yellow—that he used for serious work on important files. But for some reason, they fascinated me.

One day, I decided to take those pointers to school again. Again, because this wasn’t my first rodeo. I had sneaked them away before, ruined them beyond repair, and been repeatedly banned from touching any new ones. But, of course, that never stopped me.

I wasn’t taking them for class work —oh no—I was taking them to flaunt. I’d casually whip them out during art time, and my classmates would be in awe of my ‘grown-up’ supplies. The only problem? My father was very particular about those pointers. They lived in his briefcase, and moving them was nothing short of a cardinal sin.

Nonetheless, I took them to school, exhibited them like a pro, and of course, forgot to put them back where they belonged after returning from school.

Then came the Saturday morning, I woke up to the voice of my father asking my mother and our house help regarding his missing pointers, he needed them for work. Guilt shot through me like a bolt of electricity. I got up, only to be questioned whether I knew anything about the missing pointers. Without missing a beat, I nervously replied, “NO”.

But I had a plan!

Step one: Take the pointers out of my bag without anyone noticing. Check!

Step two: Put them in a place that’s anywhere but not inside my bag. Brilliant, right?

As I was scanning for a spot out of sight where I could put the pointers, my eyes landed on the mantelpiece, Perfect! He’ll never know the pointers have been there all along while he’s fussing over nothing. I grabbed my little sister’s toddler chair, climbed on it, and placed the pointers on the mantelpiece. I stepped down, put the chair back in place, and stood back to admire my brilliant strategy.

But there was one key oversight in my plan: Just because I can’t see something doesn’t mean others can’t.

I went to my father and casually asked, “Have you checked the mantelpiece? Maybe they’re there. Maybe you put them there and forgot about it.” I thought I was pulling the wool over his eyes, but it was more like tying my own shoelaces together.

He walked in, saw the markers, picked them up, and said, “I’ve passed this spot a dozen times, but they weren’t here before.” He picked them up and went on to work with them. I was relieved that my plan didn’t crumble like a cookie in milk. Woo hoo! Success!

Now looking back at it, I swear my father probably thought,

“This girl might have a future in stealth… if only she could find better hiding spots.”

Clearly, I had been outsmarted by my own flawed logic. If nothing else, this whole episode taught me two important lessons:

1: Your parents will always be three feet taller than you.

2: If you’re going to hide something, make sure the person you’re hiding it from IS NOT TALLER THAN YOU!

~ QuratulAin Hamza