Dear Precious, Darling, Boy and Girl,
How can I say this in the nicest possible way?
You have misplaced my favorite pair of scissors!!!!!!!
These are not just any blunt-edged, run-of-the-mill, school-girl scissors.
These are my beautiful orange and gray, soft grip, extra sharp, scissors.
It was against my better judgement to allow you to use them for gift wrapping two weeks ago, and now it has come to bite me in the rear.
You know, this reminds me of a story.
When I was a kid your Paw would say the strangest things to us when he was frustrated. Like the time he was cleaning up four or five pairs of socks that had been living on the family room floor (probably for several days). One time he looked at your uncles and I, and said, "Someday, when you are grown and living in your own house, I am going to visit you and throw my dirty socks on your family room floor." And he walked out of the room.
As a kid, I thought that was a weird kind of funny. Why would he want to do a silly thing like that?
For the record, your Paw has never (not even once) come to our home and thrown his dirty socks on my floor, but today I have clarity.
I COMPLETELY understand what he was talking about 25 years ago.
There is nothing I look forward to more than coming into your home, stealing your best scissors, cutting up toilet paper rolls and sandpaper, and then hiding them in some random place.
And then, then, when you come to me and say, "Hey, Mom, have you seen our good, sharp scissors? You know, the ones that cut beautifully every-single-time. The ones that don't have glue, or duct tape stuck to the blades. The ones that open and close with precision and ease. The ones that make me happy because I know that they will be there for me when I am putting together 20 invitations for a baby shower in two weeks?"
And I will look at you and say, "Welllllllll, the last time I saw them, they were on the sewing table in your office. I didn't use them. It wasn't me. Nope."
Then I will skip off as if I didn't realize that you are about to pull out all your hair and throw a hissy fit like a 3 year old.
Yes, its happened. Your mother is loosing her mind over a pair of scissors.
I have looked high and low for my good scissors. I have torn apart my office; Dad's office; the kitchen; the schoolroom. I even looked in the van, to no avail.
Now, I am not a high maintenance person. There are precious few things that I won't share with you. But I swear, if I don't find those scissors within 24 hours its going to drive me to drink another pot of coffee and pull out the frozen Christmas cookies.
I know you don't want that.
So please. Help me find my scissors, and then, keep your sweet little mitts off 'em.
Love,
Mom
