I have an old pair of Fiskars sewing scissors. They have iconic orange handles and are still very sharp. I only used them to cut fabric. Until they nearly cut off my son’s thumb.
My littles knew not to touch them. We’d talked about why many times. Maybe too many. Perhaps I built up how sharp they were and that the kids weren't to touch them, and it made them irresistible. Who knows?
It was an early spring day, and my two girls were out of school on break. My husband was at work, an hour and twenty minutes away. It was warm enough for the three kids to play outside. They were running off energy with the dog. Their cheeks and noses were rosy from the brisk breeze that freshened the house through the open windows. The bushes were greening, and the new grass was soft underfoot. Flowers poked their heads towards the sunshine.
A scream rent the air. When it wasn’t followed by the usual wild giggles, I moved to the glass slider to investigate. My son was wildly waving his arms while continuing to yell. Blood spattered the steps, window, patio, and grass. Alarmed, I grabbed a stack of clean kitchen towels and ran to intervene. I grabbed his arm, not certain whether he was missing a finger or had hit a major artery. Wrapping a towel around his hand, I held it over his head and tried to make sense of the auditory overload coming from my three kids.
Finally determining that he had been holding string, while his sister tried to cut it (and missed), I snagged my purse, while still holding his hand over his head. Herding them all into the car to do the dreaded car seat dance, I asked his oldest sister to hold pressure on the still bleeding digit. Buckling up in our trusty minivan (lovingly named Sally), I went to grab the keys to start the engine. They weren't in my pocket, my purse, or on the seat. Trying to ignore the continuing wails from the backseat, I jumped out to find the keys in the house.
Grasping the doorknob, I yanked. It wouldn't turn. Drat. Locked myself out of the house with the keys inside. With a child bleeding in the backseat of the car. I did have my cellphone, so I called my father to come and rescue us with his spare key. But he was fifteen minutes away. I grabbed a five-gallon bucket and went to one of the open windows of the house. With a struggle, I managed to remove the screen, climb through, snag my keys, and run back to the minivan.
The screams were down to a wail interspersed with hiccups. Tires squealing, I headed to the nearest emergency room, thirty-five minutes away. Flying down the hill, I passed my dad on the way to our house. I waved as I shot by him. My husband beat us to the hospital and met us at the car when we pulled in. He went to the exam room with our son as I waited with the girls. Another wild scream echoed down the hall. The scream gave way to sobs. The girls huddled with me and our oldest expounded upon what happened. Her safety scissors were put away and mine were in the drawer in the kitchen. She just needed to borrow them for a minute to cut one string. They were trying to "decorate" the yard for their uncle, soon to arrive on leave from the Navy. She was very sorry and didn't mean to hurt her brother. Sobs punctuated her words, and her sister patted her on the back commiserating in her misery.
My husband emerged from the treatment room, a teary little boy in his arms. White gauze covered the three stitches that adorned his tiny thumb. With dirt tracks down his cheeks, his brown eyes tugged at my heart. He reached for me, and we shared a cuddle, the girls now facing their dad. It was a day none of us will forget.
The scissors still reside in my kitchen drawer some twenty-three years later. They have been demoted (or promoted, depending on your perspective) to general kitchen scissors. I used them this weekend while wrapping gifts for my granddaughter's birthday. They now trigger a sweet memory where my kids didn't obey but learned an important lesson. I smile every time I use them. And my son? He still shows off the scar just to get a rise out of his sister.
Do you have a household item that is nostalgic or has special significance? Leave your thoughts in the comments.
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