My darlings always want to cut things. And brand things.
“Who drew on the wall?” followed by “Who cut up this book?” [sorry library] become daily questions.
“Not me,” they always say.
Word to the wise: if you don’t want to be blamed, children, then don’t autograph your art.
Needless to say we have disposed our home of all sharp items that may be misconstrued as cutting tools or sharpie markers that not even Mr. Magic Eraser himself can remove.
I look back and chuckle at my dewy-eyed self. A self that once believed that because we didn’t have scissors or sharpies meant that my kids couldn’t find scissors or sharpies.
Word to the wise: the two are not mutually exclusive.
Fast forward to the recent present.
It is never a good feeling when you walk into a guest bathroom taken aback by a long- brown-haired- flat- but- quite- large- furry animal that has no face. You feel a panic start to rise in your chest; a lump develops in your throat; you begin to prepare yourself to scream for salvation and beg for mercy. Your oldest child then comes to you and says baby #5 is now bald.
Say-who-what- huh- now.
You digest this information and run in a panic looking for your little- tiny- faced- china- doll- baby- girl. And she looks at you.
You survey the damage. Fringes for bangs. Rocking a cross between an 80’s mullet and 90’s rat tail. Your eyes are darting everywhere for the culprit scissors certain that there has been a mistake as you have exorcised your home of all things sharp and permanent.
“Who did this to you?” You find yourself turning on all of the gremlins you birthed, sure that your innocent three year old fell victim to one of their hairdresser fantasies.
“Not me!” they all exclaim in unison.
“Well, obviously someone did it.” you blindly accuse.
You turn to your three year old.
“Who did this to you?” you find yourself saying in the most soothing tone you have heard yourself use all day.
She slowly turns her head to you, lifts her chin, and slow-motion-ly bats her long lashes over her big brown eyes.
“I dot a hair-tut!” she proudly announces.
Suddenly, you find yourself flashing back to the moment when your parents discovered that you had your belly button pierced. You have the sudden urge to call and apologize to the ‘rents for their gremlin ever doing such things.
In true karma like fashion, your teeny tiny princess now has a teeny tiny pixie.
And you are certain that if she ever comes home with anything pierced, then she will have a mother with a teeny tiny breakdown.