Mommy’s Special Scissors

Where are my scissors? I thought to myself. My trusty fabric scissors were missing from their usual spot in the desk drawer. I looked around, saw stacks of cut up, cute cottons and thought they might still be in the living room.

I didn’t have a craft room, more like a craft house. I shared the desk in the game room with my children, keeping my sewing machine in the hall closet until I needed it. I kept a large self-healing cutting mat behind the couch in the living room. And I also kept my threads and scraps in my bedroom dresser. My quilting was all over the place.

I was just about to give up in searching the living room when I heard the familiar schwoopt of my precious scissors. The sound was unmistakably that of the long blades cutting slowly. I stopped where I was, couch cushion in my hands above my head, and I listened intently.

Schwoopt. There it was again! Where was it coming from? Then another question came to mind: which of my children took my scissors?

I quickly got up, not bothering to replace the couch cushion properly, and walked hastily across the house. They hadn’t been in their rooms earlier, so I had just assumed they were outside playing. The sound was coming from my bedroom. My spirits dropped as my pace quickened.

I opened the door and there were all three of my children, surrounded by cut construction paper, old fabric scraps with what looked like eye holes in them now, cardboard boxes with large squares cut out, a trail of aluminum foil leading to colorful plastic cups snipped into confetti-like pieces, and hair. Hair! They were currently cutting each other’s hair... and with my fabric scissors!

“What are you doing with my scissors?!” I couldn’t get a straight answer from them as they all started talking at the same time. But I didn’t really care. I just wanted the scissors away from them. I quickly quieted them with a stern look as I snatched the scissors from my eldest’s hands and sent them all to their rooms.

They had scissors of their own (little children’s safety-scissors), but they don’t cut quite like mine. Nothing cut quite like my Fiskars scissors, and I kept them that way. The classic tangerine handled scissors had been my grandmother’s. My mother had sharpened and given them to me when I said I wanted to quilt like my grandma. She had made quilts for each of her children and grandchildren, and I wanted to do the same.

Truth be told, I hadn’t actually done any quilting before, nor had I busted out the sewing machine since I got it a few years ago. But I was determined to be ready when the time came to do it. So I had bought everything I thought I needed, and watched tons of online videos and thought I was ready. Then the pandemic hit. All my sewing materials and beautiful cotton fabrics I had bought got repurposed for masks. I became proficient in pleats. I went from making a couple for each member of my family to making over six hundred in no time. I didn’t ask for a dime, (but I did ask for old cotton sheets and pillowcases that were just gathering dust in the closets).

After the world slowed down, masks became more readily available in stores everywhere. So I was able to slow down. I had used up most of the donated fabrics, but had plenty of scraps now to do a quilt. So I pieced it together slowly and created something beautiful.

I had done it. My first quilt! I was hooked. But now, my precious fabric scissors were dulled by the cruelness of crafty children. I didn’t have a way to sharpen them, and I dare not use them on the fabric I had waiting for me. I was at a loss. I was so angry with them, but I knew they hadn’t done any malice on purpose. They were just being curious kids. That didn’t mean they got to come out of their rooms until my husband came home.

I was teary-eyed by the time he came home. Upon further examination, I had noticed a slight chip in one of the blades. I went to him with the scissors In my hands as if they were a dying baby squirrel. He had to have the answer, but he didn’t. And though he had confusion on his face, he still comforted me, knowing I was upset. He carefully took the scissors and put them down on the kitchen counter. His arms enveloped me and I let the tears fall. I felt like I had lost a part of me. As silly as it sounds, I grieved the loss of my precious scissors. It felt like I had lost my grandmother all over again as memories came flooding back.

I remembered sitting at her feet as she stitched together pieces of a new quilt. I remembered helping her lay out the fabric to always “measure twice, cut once.” I remembered that comforting sound as she cut her fabrics with her trusty orange handled scissors.

I remembered her. And so I cried. I heard the children one by one inch out of their rooms. I felt my husband’s grip tighten for a moment in comfort, then I felt six more arms wrap around me. A large sigh escaped my lungs as I stood there enveloped in love.

The rest of the evening was a blur as they gently released me. Somehow, I made dinner and did the dishes, bathed the kids and put them to bed. The rhythm of the evening routines comforted me as I walked through it like a zombie. I only know I went to bed because in the morning I woke up.

It was a new day, but it was as if my mood was controlling the weather. At first a drizzle upon waking. Then a dreary summer rain as the day went on.

I tried to occupy my thoughts by being extra focused on the children. I took them all to get haircuts to fix the ones they had done themselves. After haircuts, lunch and go to the discount sales store to pick up anything that might occupy them for a while when we got home. One got a set of markers and a coloring book, the oldest got a crossword puzzle book, and the other picked up a small book to read when we got home.

The quiet they gave me lasted only a little while, which was for the best. Since we had arrived home I had stood at the kitchen counter staring at the cherished sheers. I wondered if I should call my mother and tell her the news, but at the same time it all started to seem silly to me.

It’s just a pair of scissors, I reasoned. But it wasn’t, was it? It was everything those scissors had done in my life, and all the dreams they represented. It was my grandmother, it was my mother, it was surviving the pandemic, it was my children and their children. It was everything that was, and was supposed to be staring back at me dull, lifeless... chipped away until it was just rubbish.

“Mommy?” My littlest one came out of the hall and into the kitchen. He slowly pulled a pair of his safety scissors from behind his back. Their handles, along with his tiny fingers, had been markered a bright orange. “I want you to have these.”

I couldn’t speak as tears started to form and words got caught in my throat. I bent down and kissed his cheek as I gently took them from him.

“Thank you,” eventually got out. He smiled at me, then ran into the game room while yelling at his siblings to come play with him.

Now I had two wonderfully meaningful pairs of carrot-colored scissors... neither of which could cut fabric. I dabbed at the tears that had fallen and straightened myself up. I was determined not to be this upset. My family deserved better. I would just have to get a new pair of scissors. A pair of my very own.

But for now, I could sew what I had cut. I went to the closet and got out the sewing machine. Lugging it to the desk in the game room, where I was met with my bright eyed children chattering away. The sound of their harmoniously playing together was music to my ears. Add in the syncopated drumming of the needle into fabric and we didn’t even hear my husband arrive home from work.

“Daddy!” They all yelled when he stuck his head in the open doorframe. He was almost knocked over by the stampede of children going in for a hug. I quickly turned off the machine and went to join the hoard of children hugging him. I gave him a quick kiss “hello” and then started to keep walking past the swarm.

“Wait,” he gently grabbed my waist. “I got you something.” He produced a colorful paper bag from behind his back. I looked at him with curiosity as I peeked in, pulling out some tissue paper.

There in the bag was a limited edition pair of Fiskars. I reached in and got them out, still attached to the hanging form they were sold on. They were a beautiful blue with bursts of colorful circles all over the handles. I looked at my husband and gave him a lingering kiss.

“They aren’t quite the same, but they just look like you.” He smiled, “ and they are all yours.” Then he looked down at all the kids, “these scissors are just for Mommy. They are Mommy’s special scissors.”