I thought that Nick was old enough to play, unsupervised, in his room. So when he asked if he and his sister could go upstairs to play in his room, I didn’t hesitate. Of course they could. I’m only 25 steps away. What could they possibly do? There are covers on all the outlets, the windows are secured, poisonous chemicals are stored safely in the kool-aid jugs. Knives, guns, machetes, power tools...everything secure. What could possibly go wrong?
Turns out quite a bit if you’re six and you just happen to be sneaking a pair of scissors up those stairs. He was very suave about it. I didn’t even notice. Usually his expression screams “Guilty! Guilty! I’m about to, or already have, done something really, really bad!” I must have been blogging at the time because I missed it. Ahem. Anyway.
My walk up the stairs is greeted by an unusual silence. And the floor is covered with golden blond curls. None of my children have blond curls. Golden or otherwise. A theory is forming but before I can prove it, my daughter runs out of her room.
“Mommy!” she says excitedly. “Nick cut my baby’s hair!”
Yes. I see that. The very expensive Pee-pee in the potty doll that “Santa” brought last year apparently has moved on from her pretty pig tails and delved straight into the punk rock scene. Nice.
“Hmmm,” I say. “What else has Nick been doing?”
My sweet daughter didn’t hesitate.
“He cut this baby’s hair, too!” She said, holding another beloved doll up for my approval.
“I didn’t do it!” he answers.
“Who did?” I ask. Silence.
“Nick!” Answers my daughter, always eager to help.
“I couldn’t help it!” he declared dramatically, throwing himself down onto the floor in a fit of hysteria.
“What else did you cut?” I asked, calmly removing the scissors from his flailing hand. (Ok, so maybe I wasn’t all that calm.)
“Nothing,” he wailed.
Then I notice the slash in his shirt. And his shorts. And in the tent over his bed. And the mysterious stuffed animal fur that is covering the floor. Apparently Big Puppy also got a trim. I notice my hair scarf draped over his chair. With a nice hole in it. The string had been cut on his window blind.
“What else did you ruin?” I asked.
I have a feeling that in the coming days I will find out. Maybe we will be reading a book, only to find the last page cut out. Maybe I’ll be doing laundry and I’ll discover two eye holes cut into his dinosaur sheets. Maybe I’ll pull my daughter’s summer dress on over her head, only to discover the straps are cut. I don’t know when, or where, but I know I’ll find it...
And I’m afraid.