I own a really great pair of kitchen scissors that my parents gave me for Christmas a couple years ago. They are unbelievably sharp and I wouldn’t be surprised if they could cut through my kitchen table if that’s what I wanted.They also can be taken apart so they can be washed or the blades sharpened.

And yesterday one half of the pair was missing.

I noticed it right before dinner. I opened a kitchen drawer and there sat one half of my kitchen scissors. I opened the dishwasher to see if I’d accidentally left the other half inside. Nope. I checked all the other drawers to see if it had been placed mistakenly in the wrong one. Wrong again. Hmmmm.

Then I knew. Adam had taken the missing blade. This is a new game of his. He likes to “help” and “fix” and “have that”. Those are phrases he is able to use pretty efficiently now. He’s also, at almost five, tall enough and smart enough to reach into cabinets and drawers and also manipulate locks and pretty much anything that the childproofing department of Target sells to keep toddlers away from dangerous household items.

He’s also sly enough to run off with these things and hide them, kind of like Helen Keller locking Anne Sullivan in her room and hiding the key. It’s a game. It gets him attention. It probably makes him feel powerful that he can outsmart all of the people in his life that, to him, seem to be only capable of saying “NO!” and “DON’T TOUCH!”.

For the most part, it’s just been a real inconvenience. He’s hidden his brothers’ Nintendo DS systems a couple times. He occasionally has hidden his shoes outside in the yard. He ran off with all of the scotch tape one day which wasn’t really a problem until I had to wrap a birthday gift. I just borrowed some from a neighbor.

But now a really sharp blade was missing and if I was correct in suspecting Adam, this was just all sorts of wrong. And while Adam, at almost five, possesses a fairly impressive vocabulary and even the ability to spell and write much of his vocabulary, it is just that. Vocabulary. You can ask him his name and he will tell you “Adam.” You can ask him what color Spongebob is and he will tell you “yellow”. Yet asking him things like how was your day at school, where did you hide the kitchen scissors and most importantly, do you understand the urgency of this situation…well, I don’t expect to get far. Autism gets in the way of these kinds of conversations.

Not that I wasn’t going to try, however. The next morning, I was on a mission.

“Adam,” I began as patiently as I could, because freaking out usually freaks him out. “Do you see this?” I held up the blade. “Do you know what this is?”   

He grinned big. “Scissors!”he proclaimed proudly.

“Does Adam play with scissors?”

“Adam cut with scissors!”

“What does Adam cut with scissors?”

Adam looked at me, then stuffed a bunch of Fruit Loops in his mouth and started rambling on about how b-u-s spells bus and how he’s going to be a skeleton for Halloween.

“Adam!” I forced eye contact with him. “Where are the other scissors? See these?”I showed him the half pair. “These are in this drawer. Where are the other ones?”

Adam smiled. Ate Fruit Loops. Turned the TV on and off. I didn’t know what to do. Missing Nintendos are one thing. A four year old playing with sharp objects is quite another. Dammit. Come on, Adam, help me out here. How can I get you to understand??

“Adam,” I tried once more, “Mommy wants these scissors. Can you go get them for Mommy? It will make Mommy so happy if you bring me the scissors.”                                                                                                                        

“Watch Spongebob?” Adam asked as he slid down from his kitchen stool and ran off, leaving me shaking my head and wondering in exactly which way this situation was going to end badly.

Five minutes later, I turned my head to see Adam coming downstairs, his favorite doll in one hand, the missing half pair of kitchen scissors in the other. He stopped and gave me a mischievous grin and I have to say, it made me think just a little of Michael Myers in the beginning of Halloween. I immediately ran over and took them from him before we had any chance of recreating that scene.

“Adam!” I hugged him. “Thank you for bringing me the scissors! Good job! You did it! These scissors need to stay in the kitchen. These are Mommy’s scissors!”

Adam laughed, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Mommy so happy!”

Yes, Mommy so happy. Mommy so relieved. Relieved because I had my scissors back and I’d just averted a potential seriously bad situation. A million different bad situations if you stop to imagine…

And also so relieved and happy because I’d just had a breakthrough moment with my autistic son. Sometimes they come in the most unsuspecting and unusual ways.

If only Anne Sullivan was around to give me a high five…

“mrrrrrrrrrp”
 
Through the fog of sleep I become aware of the vibrating purr of my cell phone which I keep tucked under my pillow, a habit left over from when my son was serving in Iraq. Blurry eyes struggle to focus on the tiny screen. The digital clock reads 6:04 am. A little envelope and phone icon indicates that I have a text message.
 
1-800-Oompa1: Hey Mom

I try to remember how to spell ‘hey’, and numb fingers trip over the miniature keypad. Through crossed eyes I miss the [send] button and click on [delete] instead. I cuss and my husband snorts in his sleep beside me. Did he just say ‘quarter’, which is what we charge each other for swearing.

1-800-Oompa1: R U awake?

1-800-MOM: No, I’m texting in my sleep.

1-800-Oompa1: What’s 4 breakfast?

1-800-MOM: Fingernails, boogers and spit.

1-800-Oompa1: Can I have lunch $

1-800-MOM: No, eat left-over breakfast.

At times technology has it’s merits, but not at 6:04 am, and certainly not for breakfast and lunch money. I spend way too much money on multiple cell phones on the family plan so I can keep track of my little private army of dna… and the culprit for their existence… their father! I rarely have to call them, but I can almost guarantee that when I do need to contact them via the cell phone, they will not answer.

Except at 6:04 am, when the breakfast menu is in question.

“mrrrrrrrrrp”

1-800-Oompa2: Psst.

1-800-MOM: snoring!

1-800-Oompa2: lol. You should give me a ride 2 school.

1-800-MOM: No,I should stay in bed and sleep in.

1-800-Oompa2: I’ll make you a cup of coffee, you can have the last of the hazelnut creamer.

1-800-MOM: Start the car, I’ll be right out.

Yeah, technology sucks at 6:04 am. Especially when I didn’t get home from work and into bed until 12:35 am! The moment Micro-Soft comes up with a mobile, electronic Mom I’m signing up for one, I don’t care what it costs if it means that I can actually get more than 5 hours of sleep at night.

“mrrrrrrrrrp”

(1 hour later)

“mrrrrrrrrrp” 

1-800-Oompa3: Mommy, you owe me some ice cream.

I need a mood ring that tells me what my children’s moods are before I walk in the door.

When I have a really rotten day at work, which has become increasingly more prevalent, my kids are usually sweet as pie.  Last week I came home in tears and immediately both girls sprang to my aid, held onto my middle and squeezed my sorrows away.  Today I had a mediocre day and the girls were acting like demon spawn.  They were fighting (more than usual), throwing tantrums about the level of leftover ice cream, back-talking (“I don’t see any olives in my salad, *Mother*, where are they exactly??”), spilling their dinner, not eating their dinner then demanding dessert.  Whatever irritates me, they did it.  My mediocre day turned into one where I wanted to hop into the car and drive (without my cell phone) until I ran out of highway. 

I really need that giant mood ring for when all three of us have a miserable day.  Maybe I’ll take up a collection, I’m sure my neighbors would contribute!

My children have taken everything from me: my body, my original hair color, a full night’s sleep, extra, er, any money, the ability to finish a sentence, you get the picture. Stupid me, I just give more, and more and more. Wait, they have given me something–that nervous tic in my right eye. That’s gracious of them. The past month has been hell. I’ve been trying to sell my son’s car and it hasn’t been easy. Posting a used car ad is NOT a good way to meet new and interesting people. I’ve cleaned that darned thing so many times (and it still smells like BOY) I could, and have, just scream. I just found out that he broke a wheel bearing assembly and a tie rod on the car, possibly joy-riding into ditches or something? It’s a friggin’ economy car, honey, not a 4×4! So, after breaking the bank on the repairs so someone would buy it, and breaking my back with the labor of enduring endless weekends of ’showings’, I finally find a break. A woman, of a greater amount of sanity than the previous dozen before her, likes the car and agrees to buy it for her teenager. Whoopeee!!! I tell my son the good news, that after the repair money I’m deducting, he’ll have some funds to continue living in Paris. He can maybe eat a quiche, instead of ramen noodles (but pace yourself, kiddo!) I go to get the car title out of my filing cabinet…and it’s gone. I looked through the damned files eighty more times figuring that it’d magically apear, somehow. I searched in corners and cubbies of the house I didn’t even know I had (even the scary attic!) I find out I can get a replacement title but not for several business days, of course. I don’t sleep well because I’m so stressed that I just fouled up this sale. I looked in the mirror this morning and noticed a swath of white hairs I knew weren’t there just a week ago. The sacrifices continue.

Logan and his neighborhood buddy Nick scored themselves some Walkie Talkies this afternoon and honestly, it was as if they had struck gold.

I don’t know where the things came from–it could have been any one of the garages to which they have access in our culdesac–but the radios worked very well and you’d have thought someone had handed the boys equal rights to the Holy Grail.

I happened to be outside at the time because Adam was out there as well. This gave me the opportunity to witness the spy games being played and also the creativity of which these two fine young gentlemen are capable. They did not disappoint.

“Agent N, this is Agent L confirming an enemy sighting due west. Enemy is armed, proceed with caution,” Logan alerted Nick to the danger of 7 year old Ryan lurking on the deck with his Star Wars laser gun.

“Roger that, Agent L. Enemy in sight. Capture coming right up.”

“Return enemy to secret dungeon.”

“Roger. Mission completed.”

Then suddenly it was as if the red tape of good taste and innocent dramatic play was snipped away and a light bulb of crassness exploded like a bomb into their brains.

“SPLLLLLLTTTTTTTHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” came the sound of Logan spitting through the airwaves. Both boys collapsed on the ground in amused hysterics.

“Go really far away!” Nick commanded. “I want you to hear this from really far away.” Logan obeyed, heading around to the backyard while Nick remained in the driveway.

“BLLLLLUGHHHHRRRP!” belched Nick impressively as if he’d spent the afternoon chugging pitchers of beer at the nearest bar. “Did you hear that?! I just burped into the Walkie Talkie!!”

“FARTFACE!” squawked the reply.

“FFFFFFFRRRRRRRT! I JUST FARTED INTO IT!”

And so it went on for several more minutes, with each boy taking his turn at making whatever kind of disgusting noise into the speaker he could coax out of his body, each trying to outdo the previous attempt. When they ran out of noises (or when possibly one of them felt an esophagus was beginning to errode), they turned their efforts into accusing each other of various unforgivable third grade sins.

“YOU KISS GIRLS AT RECESS!!”

“YOUR UNDERWEAR SHOWS DURING LIBRARY AT SCHOOL!”

Amazingly, this was all in good fun.  I feel kind of like Logan had some of the greatest 30 minutes of his life. I also know that there are many moms who would have put a stop to it right away. I, however, am just used to this type of entertainment that young boys seem to crave, I know they just need to get it out of their systems, and I also am fairly confident that turning a blind eye to it will not result in either of them shouting these things at their teachers (or their bosses) someday.

So I simply took it for what it was: another moment where a child in my life gives me something to shake my head and laugh about. And write about!          

Uh…thanks for that?