When I was 3 1/2 or 4, we lived in an apartment complex in Delaware. I don't have a ton of memories from that age, so parts of this story might be slightly incorrect (Mom, feel free to set me straight if I'm off course). My Mom and Dad had friends, I believe their names were Karen and Dave. I don't remember a ton about them, other than them being hippies who drove a groovy VW bus, that we all used to cruise down to Rehobeth Beach in.
I also remember that one time, Karen and Dave were going out of town and asked us to watch their cat. I don't remember the cat's name, but he was an enourmous buff-colored tabby cat. He wasn't quite
this big, but you get the picture. The extent of my personal pet experience up until that point was a lizard we had in our aquarium. And the only thing I really remember is that one day, somehow, that lizard escaped. Weeks went by and we never saw him, and then one night, when my Mom woke in the middle of the night to go potty, she flicked on the bathroom light and watched our pet lizard swiftly scamper under the toilet bowl, never to be seen again.
I was still an only child at this point, my brother hadn't entered the scene quite yet. And I wanted someone to play with me. That fat cat was going to be my friend if it killed me (or him). One day during our petsitting week, fatty was laying in my mom's needlepoint basket by the couch amid the yarns, needles, crochet hooks, sewing scissors and other such crafty stuff. I tried everything I could think of to get him out of there to play. I imagine he must have been too heavy as I'm sure I must have tried lifting him out by his arms. He wouldn't budge. So I did what any curious and bored child would do to an unwilling playmate.
When my parents walked in and saw fat cat's haircut, I can't even imagine what they said to me. I think I've blocked it out for self preservation all of these years. (Now that I'm a parent, I'd imagine I'd be laughing my butt off on the inside.) I do know they didn't punish me. Didn't take away my bike or my dolls. Oh no. That would have been cake. Instead, they issued a punishment much worse than taking away my few earthy possessions.
They told me, simply, when Dave and Karen returned to pick Fatty up at the end of the week, I'd have to tell them myself what I had done to their beloved feline. I didn't hurt him, I had just given him a nice patchy kitty fohawk on his belly fur and I was going to have to 'fess up.
I remember dreading their return, for at least five minutes and then my kid brain turned to other important issues like picking my nose and where my next candy bar was coming from.
But days later, when Karen and Dave showed up to claim their cat, I stood bravely, lip trembling, and declared, "I sorry, I tut your titty's hair." I don't remember them being mad (they were hippies, afterall, and this was 1974). I'm sure they took him home, and his hair grew back just fine. But to this day, I remember that cat and that particular punishment, and I'll tell you something... I have never played beauty parlor with another animal again.
Enter my 3 year old. Logan has been practicing his scissor cutting skills at preschool. And we have several pairs of safety scissors at home for him to make arts and crafts. He'll sit and cut paper shapes or a while, or cut pictures out of a magazine for a few while I'm folding laundry or making dinner. Then the next thing I know, he's wandering the house, scissors in hand, looking for something to cut. So far nothing crucial has been lost. But today he cut an anchor line off one of his toy boats, and I caught him trying to give the carpeted steps a little trim.
Dylan never cut anything he wasn't supposed to and now of course he's old enough to understand the rules of the scissors. However, with Logan, I think we could very possibly have a scissor disaster on our hands one of these days. There's basically nothing ''safety' about any pair of scissors you give a 3 year old.
