Oh, Look. Scissors

You remember how Rose wanted to bring scissors in her carryon so she could perform yarn magic on the plane? And I told her she couldn't? Here's round two.

We're at the beach, which I have a love/hate relationship with. I love sitting, watching the waves, drinking a rum and coke. I hate sand. I really hate it. But my kids can't get enough of it. Rose's idea of a good time can be summed up by her ecstatic statement, "Look! The sand sticks better when you're wet!" This means sand gets everywhere. Even the lining of swimsuits get sand, and for the life of me I can't figure out how it gets there. There's no opening whatsoever, and yet sand accumulates to the point where the swimsuits are sagging and threatening to drop off bodies. And while most people on vacation are looking for entertainment, I'm pretty sure wardrobe malfunctions are not what they had in mind.

To prevent my kids from being arrested for indecent exposure, I knew I had to get rid of that sand in their swimsuits. And the only way I could think of was to cut a hole in the lining. I asked if anybody had seen a pair of scissors in the condo, and Sabrina handed me a pair. I cut holes like crazy, emptied the sand, and thought nothing more of it.

Until the next day on the beach, while sipping a rum and coke, the thought occurred to me that the scissors Sabrina handed to me looked awfully familiar. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that those red-handled scissors were mine. How in the world did they get here?

I asked Sabrina where she got those scissors. She said, "I brought them."

"How?"

"In my backpack, of course," she replied, in that particular tone of voice preteens reserve for their very stupid parents.

Yep, the carryon backpack. The one that was diligently examined by two TSA experts by X-ray as we were taking off shoes and belts and emptying loose change into small buckets to prevent any of our young potential security threats from bringing any sharp or dangerous objects onto the plane. But they missed a pair of scissors with 8-inch blades. Huh. What do you know? Don't you feel safer?

Maybe I shouldn't post this, because the terrorists might just read it and realize they should be using purple backpacks to smuggle sharp objects.

In Which Yarn Gets Left Behind

Me: Rose, have you packed your carryon bag for the airplane?

R: Yes.

Me: What did you pack?

R: I have a couple of books, a pencil box with pens and pencils, a clipboard so I have something hard to draw on, some paper, and my journal. I also packed some yarn and a pair of scissors in case I wanted to make anything yarn-y.

Me: Um, sweetie, you can't pack scissors in your carryon bag.

R: Oh, is it considered a weapon?

Me: Yes, it is.

R: All right. Well, then, I may as well take the yarn out, too. If I don't have the scissors, I can't use the yarn. I can't just chew the ends.

Me: Probably not.

R: No, I really can't. I've tried it before.

Boobies are Better

A recent conversation our family had while we were driving around town:

Rose: Mom, guess what?

Me: What?

Rose: I'm finally growing boobies! Isn't that awesome?

Me: Yes, honey, it sure is.

Sabrina: Rose, I can't believe you just said that!

Rose: What?

Sabrina: You shouldn't talk about your boobies.

Rose: Why not? It's taken forever. And besides, boobies are better.

Calvin: No, they're not.

Rose: They are, too.

Calvin: No, they're not!

Rose: Boobies are better. Wieners are worse.

Sabrina: Ewww!

Calvin: Boobies are not better. Wieners are.

Rose: Boobies are better. Wieners are worse. Notice the alliteration? I'm obviously right.

Calvin: Okay, then . . . Boobies boo. Wieners win.

Sabrina: Guys, stop it! Mom, make them stop!

Rose: Boobies are better! Wieners are worse!

Calvin: Boobies boo! Wieners win!

Sabrina: (hands over ears) I'm not listening.

I'm lucky I didn't drive off the side of the road I was laughing so hard.