Is nothing sacred? Two days ago I discovered my children had gone to town, each with a pair of scissors in hand. They cut their daddy’s tshirts, his jeans, his ties, the shoelaces to his boots. They cut up bills swiped from dad’s desk, and the gems off the new fairy wings I’d given my daughter. They cut the shoelaces of Walter’s boots, the pillowcase on the pillow, and they cut up the pillow Hazel and I made together. THEN they moved on to the glue sticks. I didn’t notice this immediately, their dad did. “What IS this?” he asked about a weird substance he’d discovered smeared on the closet door. “Banana?” He was thinking out loud. He had some other verbal thoughts not suitable for print, and went to get the cleaner. With the first spray came a bloom of color, bright purple, the color of glue stick glue. Y’know, goes on purple so you can see where you put it, then dries clear? Its like magic ink, also. When sprayed with the clorox cleaner the vivid purple returned and the magnificent work of art that covered the door as high as my four year old could reach was revealed. In the center of it all was her name. “Did you do this?” her daddy asked her. “No.” was her reply. Another invisible work was discovered on another door, this she was made to clean herself.
Fast forward through the pain and suffering of the lessons learned from these escapades to two days later. I was changing the baby when I heard whispers, the zipper of my bag zipping, and the faint click of the refrigerator door shutting. Hmmm. I scooped up the baby and went to see. “STOP!” I shouted, lying the baby on the carpet and leaping for the door as the dog headed for the butter that was, for some reason, out on the side porch and scrambling for my two year old as he was about to squirt hotsauce onto a plate of pretzels. Seriously. Hotsauce, the kind with the rooster on it that’s from the Asian foods isle. The ketsup was next to the hotsauce on the back porch, why not squirt ketsup? I saved both the butter and the boy.