My, How We've Grown

Lauren has always -- for almost three years of always -- loved scissors.  Or, Lauren has always loved the idea of scissors. 

On some anonymous morning at home, she would toddle over to me, clutching a package of something in her hand.  Snacks, stickers, feminine products -- it didn't matter what it was, it only mattered that she wanted it open.  And in some cases, I disagreed.  Gummy bears at 8AM?  Sorry, child.

 

Her lip would pucker out, her precious brow would furrow, and she'd march away again, morning light streaming over her pink-pale skin.  Maybe there would be a yell of anguish.  Maybe a heave -- the desired object flying in slow motion across the room. 

In her disappointed state, she'd stiffen her legs, bounce one knee in and out of tension.  Thinking, she'd glance in my direction from her slanted, angry eye.  The object would be retrieved from behind the kitchen table, or whatever other venue in which it may have found itself.  Deliberately, Lauren would leave the room, object in tow. 

Moments of silence later, the sound of crinkling cellophane or crackling paper would reach my ears, and I'd sniff out the darling culprit: Lauren, hiding behind the rocking chair in her bedroom.  In one hand, the tightly sealed package of contraband, in the other, a miniature, pink, plastic pair of toy scissors.  They couldn't cut their way through a banana, they're so round and fake, but Lauren -- sweet Lauren -- would be wielding them with sincere purpose.  Chopping at the edges of the baggie or envelope.  Trusting that her efforts would produce great results.

Gummy bear-flavored results, hopefully.

Now, though -- now, she's got the real thing.  Gummy bears everywhere are running for cover.