While making tacos one evening several years ago, I heard the pitter-patter of my son’s toddler toes scampering toward me, paired with a hearty, mischievous giggle. I remember thinking, “I wonder what’s so funny… He’s been so quiet, playing all by himself.” A quiet toddler? Playing by himself? For 30 minutes? I should have known better: rookie mistake.

I turned to greet my then-16-month-old and was shocked to see a sticky, drippy and bronzed version of him stumbling toward me—one chubby hand reaching out for me, the other white-knuckling an empty 16-ounce jar of molasses that he had five-fingered from the pantry while I had been cooking.

I briskly scooped him up and our equally wide eyes met each other—his outlined in molasses. I exclaimed, “What did you DO?” and then burst out laughing; he belly laughed in response. I put him down and covered the ground beef. Even this rookie knew it would be a while before we ate.

I thought I’d be mad. Instead, I was giddy at the sight of his reckless abandon. I thought I’d resent the clean-up. Instead, I was impressed with the far reach of his work.

Hand in sticky hand, we followed his footprints into the living room. While I had been busy browning the beef, he had been busy browning—in molasses—the sofa, the loveseat, the coffee table, the media stand, the remote control, my cell phone, the floor, and the walls. And he browned himself, of course—making the most of his golden opportunity. Have you worked with molasses lately? It resembles motor oil in its viscosity and color. Luckily, it smells better—pungent, but better. He had created a thorough mess.

I was prepared to break out into a cold sweat. After all, before kids, I belonged to the “clean car club” at our local car wash. I found grime disturbing, disrespectful and downright yucky. But in the time it took for my toddler to paint our living room—and himself—in molasses, I warmed up to mess.

I thought I’d be mad. Instead, I was giddy at the sight of his reckless abandon. I thought I’d resent the clean-up. Instead, I was impressed with the far reach of his work. And molasses is, after all, water soluble; no big deal. The only thing I was angry about, in hindsight—I didn’t pause to take a photo or two.

Just a few months ago, I found a great book for my boys: “The Beautiful Oops” by Barney Saltzberg. My now-5-year-old son and his 3-year-old brother delight in the book’s lessons: “A smudge and a smear can make magic appear;” “A little drip of paint lets your imagination run wild.” The author reframes messes and “mistakes” not as bad accidents or unfortunate events but as stuff that happens along the way, as moments essential to the evolution of our ideas and of ourselves. Messes are opportunities for creative expression, for delight and discovery, and for pleasure and celebration. Messes are real. They are how we live. And they can be beautiful.

Molasses-gate cleaned up nicely (with the help of about 10 wet dishrags), as did my son after a long bath. Nowadays, my boys deconstruct those same sofas to create forts, playgrounds, and caves. They help me bake, and we get flour everywhere. Atop the bed I used to make daily (with hospital corners!), I plop into a downy glob of wrinkled, rumpled bedding for naptime with my youngest son.

While he snoozed last week, I studied his feet, which are still so little. I wondered where those feet will go, what they will do. I hope they hike to the top of Mayan ruins, kick a winning goal or two, and feel the warmth of an aluminum canoe while floating down a pristine rural stream. I imagine that they will sweat while he waits at the front door of his first date’s parents’ house. I even hope that one of them gets a splinter from a sea urchin off the coast of a tiny town in northern Italy, and I hope an elderly local man advises, in broken English and pantomime, that he pee on his wound—inciting laughter, a very real analgesic. Yes, I’d rather spend my time messing with these beautiful ideas than cleaning up so-called messes.

Admittedly, I still visit the “clean car club”—but only about once a year. The employees cringe as they forcefully peel away my boys’ car seats from the leather upholstery, forever sticky from the countless dripping juice boxes my boys inhale on the way home from our countless adventures around town. Over the crackling, they exclaim, “Haven’t been in for a while, huh?” Nope, sure haven’t. We’ve been busy. Making beautiful messes.