You know you’re a mom when…
Can we talk about the scissors in my house?
My cat is desperately hungry — like, acting‑like‑he’s‑never‑been‑fed‑in‑his‑entire‑fossil‑life hungry — and I’m trying to bond with the creature and hand‑feed him one of those treat tubes he loves.
This cat has lived through more iterations of me than anyone in this household, so the least I can do is come through on this damn snack.
Which WOULD be easy, except:
I have placed approximately SEVEN BILLION PAIRS of scissors in the same place. Because we lose them. Then we buy more. And I didn’t even choose this place — it’s just where they always ended up, so I surrendered to fate.
During extreme scissor surges, I’ve been known to stash pairs in “sensible” spots — with the wrapping paper, at the desk, maybe two in a box on the top shelf of my closet.
Exactly like sunscreen. All of this is sunscreen déjà vu. In fact, I bought a box TODAY for the sunscreen closet stash.
We ended last year with eleven. And they are GONE. (They can’t be. Where are they? Is this mom life? Did this happen last year?)
Alas, we may never know what happened to last year’s sun‑warrior mist… all except one sad remaining spray in Joey’s trunk.
So, the scissors. The cat. The tube. The cute little moment where I was just trying to give him the time of day he doesn’t get enough.
The scissors tub — the good ol’ reliable holder of billions of pairs of scissors — had dwindled to a single pair of crazy scissors.
The zig‑zag ones. The preschool‑art‑project ones. The “this is not a tool for opening anything except construction paper and maybe hope” ones.
So now I’m in my kitchen, actually trying to do a cute little decorative‑edges thing, kind of annoyed and inspired at the same time.
Good old Norm Norm is giving me the look of a creature who has survived “so many of these multi‑sequence spin‑offs at treat time with you, Mother,” and cannot believe this is his life.
And of course — OF COURSE — I still hadn’t fed him, because my brain immediately launched into a full internal TED Talk about my entire household scissor ecosystem. Like:
Why do we own this many scissors
Why are none of them here
Why is sunscreen the same problem
Why am I like this
Why is this treat tube fighting for its life
Why am I not feeding my cat yet
What am I doing over here
And then — mid‑spiral — I pranced over to the cat with his highness’s masterpiece treat tube, and he ate it just like a normal one. And we were happy.
ANYWAY.
By the end of this ridiculous journey, I had:
secured a new scissor strategy
remembered I’m mid‑progress on a sunscreen strategy
discovered an unexpected fascination with cat‑treat art
fed the ancient cat
and genuinely enjoyed that this is where I get to put my best energy lately
All from a very noisy cat. A treat tube. Panic‑turned‑beauty crazy scissors.
All from a moment that looks like nothing but is actually a life‑changing data point.
Motherhood, adulthood, woo‑woo/effective, curious‑about‑everything. Empowered by zig‑zag scissors, rolling in micro‑epiphanies, and taking inventory of the things that make our world a better place.
And the people who make mine.
