It's my fault. The carpet is so light-colored and only three years old. I caress it sometimes. Last year, we asked for a new vacuum cleaner for Christmas. So we could keep it cleaner, stare proudly at its stain-resistant fibers. After living with the disgusting Berber at This Old House for six years, new carpet has felt like living in a wall-to-wall dreamland.

So maybe I won't let anyone use the door to the back deck that's located randomly in the living room. BECAUSE THEY MIGHT TRACK ON THE CARPET.

And maybe I make every child remove their shoes within five nanoseconds of entering my house. BECAUSE THEY MIGHT TRACK ON THE CARPET.

And maybe I have been making my five-year-old daughter use travel coffee cups, water bottles and maybe, maybe even two leftover sippy cups when she dines in the living room. BECAUSE SHE  MIGHT SPILL ON THE CARPET.

And then, then! Just as I was chastising myself for being ridiculous, I let her eat french toast sticks and syrup in the living room.

Wait for it.

She pushed back her TV tray. It tipped over in slow motion. My feet were stuck as though rooted in sand. A tiny, ceramic bowl containing Mrs. Butterworth somersaulted gracefully through the air, spraying thick and sticky brown syrup in a four-foot swath across my sweet plush. All the sippy cups were for naught.

She stained the goddamn carpet.