The Scissors and Me

My daughter thinks that I am the entire world. I can do no wrong, I can make no mistakes, and I can fix absolutely anything. She's 3 and right now, I am her god. I am worshiped and I am surprised that more don't follow the example of my Little Hoss. I don't require sacrifices, but an occasional virgin strapped to a tree wouldn't be so hard, now would it?? In fact, just tell me she's a virgin, I won't know. And for the record, I'm totally ok with fake boobs.

If you have read my blog, you know that my daughter is just a tad bit destructive. That is like saying a tornado is just a tad bit windy. It would only be fitting that she is the type of daughter that likes to tear apart everything since I am quite handy at fixing everything she destroys.

But what happens when I can't fix it? Her whole vision of me would be destroyed. Am I nothing but a false prophet? Normally, I would assume that this wouldn't happen until she is at least 15 and I had just explained to her that she was going to be a nun for the rest of her life. Then she can think that her dad is nothing but a mere mortal and not Zeus raining down thunderbolts.

Little Hoss has a pair of child's scissors that I let her run around the pool with on her way to sitting to close to the many of hours of TV I let her watch. She love's these things. I think it's because she realized that she could be doubly destructive with a knife rather than just hands. She has realized how to use tools to accomplish her tasks, now she is a monkey.

I'm not sure exactly how, but she broke them. It appeared that she snapped the pivot point between the two blades. My first reaction of course was, god damn it, really? However, I also thought, Christ, she's strong. Seriously, who breaks scissors?

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" she screamed.

"Fix it."


"Fix it Daddy."

Crap, crap, crap, crap.

"Daddy, fix it." Tears are starting to pool in her eyes, her sweet little innocent eyes that believes that her father can do no wrong.

I know that I rant a lot. I know that I show my frustration with this whole parenting thing. I know that I should drink in private more often. But the truth of it is, my daughter owns me and I know it. Not only do I know it, I kinda love it.

I hate to see disappointment in my daughter's eyes and I will go to pretty big lengths to make sure that it's not there. Sure theirs discipline, but I always cave way to early. People may see me in public giving structure and rules, but as soon as we are in the car I make sure everyone has hugs and that she knows that Daddy is sorry he is such a pathetic bastard, how about some ice cream?

And when i looked at those scissors, her very most favorite thing in the world, I knew that I was sunk. Sure, I could go get buy some other scissors but she would know man, she would know and she would see me for the unemployed loser that I really am. She would know that they weren't fixed immediately and her idea of me would suffer way before it's supposed to. When it's supposed to I always imagined it's because of some guy name Chet and I had to repeatedly beat his little goth ass so as not to foul my daughter.

But the only Chet here is me and I can't fix her scissors.

"Please?" she says in that little 3 year old voice that makes me crack every single time. "Please Daddy?" With each moment I am hating the scissor manufacturer who put a plastic pivot point in child's scissors. I am thinking that I should take the remains of these scissors to the CEO's house and ask him why he wanted to disappoint my wonderful angel, you gigantic turd sandwich. Then I will punch him.

There should be something substantial in there. Don't they know that children destroy everything? It should be durable, it should be able to withstand any and all scissor related accidents. It should be easily replaced, it should be able to withstand a 300 pound emu jumping on top of it. It should be made of metal.

Yes, yes, that's it! It should be made of metal!!! I am not a disappointment to my daughter. I am the bringer of all that is good. I am the light, I am the way, I am the HOSS.

A bolt, a nut, and a lock washer. That's all that I need. I have more sizes of bolts and nuts than there are holes in the world. I always keep them handy because you never know what building Little Hoss is going to attempt to bring down.

Within seconds I find the right bolt, a very very small one and I have the nut to go with it. 1 minute flat and the scissors are fixed and I hand them back to my daughter.

"Thank you Daddy" she squeals and runs away to do countless more damage such as cutting my wife's hair while she is asleep.

But she is happy and once again everything in her world is good because yes, Daddy can fix it.

I think two things as she runs to her destiny of destruction. First, I know that in the long run I'm going to pay for fixing her scissors. She is going to do something that is going to drive me up a wall, like shaving the dog. But that's ok, right now she still loves me and thinks that her dad can beat up your dad.

Second: Chet, you're screwed pal. You can never live up to me.


  1. I'm not sure I can understand how you let your 3 year old run around with scissors. I mean, I have a 3 year old (4 tomorrow!) and I don't trust her one bit. I can just see her coming out of her room with chunks of hair missing, whether they are plastic scissors or not, she'll find a way. I'm also not sure how you wrote a whole post about scissors, but at least you fixed them. I'd like to tell you that it gets better, but it doesn't. Those eyes, and that voice will get you every time. Congrats to you on fixing those scissors! It's better than I would have done. I guess that's the advantage of you being a guy.

  2. She doesn't so much as run around with them as she throws them at her brother as he spins on a wheel, it's very entertaining and we hope to bring it on the road soon. And of course I can write an entire blog about something like scissors. Early on I wrote an entire blog on the backyardigans, another one in the style of Dr. Suess. It goes on and on.