The house is ready. It was ready at exactly 2:29 yesterday. I texted Husband and said, "The house is (almost) ready. Huge sigh of relief." I invited a friend and her daughters over for the afternoon, as renovations are noisy and her kids were sick of hearing the nail gun.
We sat and chatted in the kitchen as I unloaded the dishwasher. It was a quiet day, a nice and lovely moment in time-- a homemaker enjoying the company of another and the kids doing the same. Susie the realtor came by to inspect the house.
We were ready.
Sans Leenie's room- the girls were quarantined within her purple walls accompanied by only the toys that they could reach. And they could reach a lot of toys. Apparently... Little Miss Leenie, who has been getting paid 25 cents a day to clean her room, has been stuffing them under her bed.
Child labor is not what it used to be.
And, yes, I do pay her exactly twenty five cents. No judgement.
Her room was a disaster, but they were enjoying the process of making the mess. I was enjoying the company of their mother. Totally worth it.
Wynn came to the kitchen to tell her mom she was ready to go home.
Normally, we have to tear the girls apart. I'm not talking about saying, "Okay, one more hug and then we need to get in the car." I am talking about picking up a screaming kid and saying something along the lines of, "If you ever want to see her again, you will stop this right now..." as she scurries under the bed a little further. Not under Leenie's bed, it's full of toys.
We found it odd and I asked her if she wanted a snack.
As she turns to head in the pantry, Homemaker gasps a gurgle of a gasp and whispers, "I think there has been a haircut."
Maybe I was pious. Maybe I was ignorant. Maybe I should have checked under the bed.
"No-- no she didn't get a haircut. Leenie knows better. And, besides, even if she doesn't- I don't allow scissors out of the bowl on the fridge."
It's a fail-proof system. The scissors are stored higher than they can reach. With a chair... higher than they can reach on a chair with a stool on their tippy toes and Bennie on Leenie's shoulders. The scissors are that high.
Because I know that Leenie knows better than to use scissors for things other than paper.
Wynn came back around the corner and there was a snippet of hair missing.
I am wide-eyed, mortified, and certain that my friend will never return to our house. Certainly, how can I blame her? Her daughter got a hair cut by hand of a six year old. MY six year old.
Standing in my kitchen and at the top of my lungs, I calmly enunciate," EILEENCAGLEGETUPHERETHISINSTANT."
Wynn hid under her mother.
The windows shattered.
The pitter patter of six year old feet pittered around the corner and tears were in here eyes.
Perhaps I was a little loud.
"BEFORE YOU SAY ONE WORD. ONE WORD. I WANT TO REMIND YOU THAT YOU WILL NEVER EVER GET IN TROUBLE WHEN YOU TELL ME THE TRUTH, BUT YOU WILL ALWAYS BE IN TROUBLE IF YOU LIE."
The humor in the moment is starting to erupt and dwindle out my anger.
My kid has bangs.
My kid has bangs and ringlets of hair all over her shirt.
Bennie has also came around the corner in this moment and her hair has also been snipped. She jumps in front of the live grenade and says, "Look Mommy! Look! Hair-- alllllll GONE! Bye bye hair! So pretty!"
I close my eyes and try to focus on not laughing.
[ dead grandparents. do not laugh. David Hasselhoff. - wait, he's funny. packing boxes. Roseanne Barr in a bikini. 10,000 spoons. do not laugh. non-alcoholic wine. c-sections. traffic lights. Deliverance. Ebola. Alanis Morsette. ]
I am quivering, trying with all my might to find something in this moment to maintain my parentage.
Don't look at the other adult in the room. Wynn continues to shake in fear. The more she shakes, the more hair falls on the floor beneath her mother.
Two of the three children are sobbing, knowing they did something really wrong.
Setting aside the obvious, they had a haircut, and not really caring who did it-- they were both guilty on some level-- I beg the obvious question: Where did the scissors come from?
I walk back to her room and it looked like the Hair Club for Men Outlet store.
There were locks of blonde curls everywhere. Straight pieces, curly pieces, it looked like a wig factory got caught in a wind storm. I was speechless. The scissors that caused the damage? Oh, they were barely two inches big.
After Homemaker left-- almost a skinny second after we discovered the Summer Scissor Incident of 2015-- I texted Lyndsey, who does my hair:
Lyndsey's at the beach. Leenie got shipped off to Moultrie the next day so Cookie, a barber by trade, could take care of this little fiasco.
And if I heard it one time from one person, I heard it 17 times from 17 grandparent age people-- "Every little kid does it at least once."
"Mama, I don't remember ever getting a hold of scissors," I said to my mom.
"You were the exception."
Yes, yes I was.