I Hate Myself for Loving You

That is the sound of a mother screaming.

While feeding Lila this afternoon, I should have known something bad was going on by the silence in the house. No one running in to interrupt me and stop LBD from eating. No one yelling or running. And this pile says it all. They played "hair cutter." Now you might ask, where did they get the scissors? I admit, they have several pairs of kid-safe scissors in their arts and crafts bucket. Because I taught them how to be safe with them and they only used them to cut paper. Or so I thought.

Interestingly, C gave herself cute little bangs--I'm not a fan of bangs on kids, but she could certainly have done a lot worse with them. And then she decimated D's hair. She cut the crown to the scalp and cut the right side at an angle. She gave her a cross between a mullet and one of those asymmetrical 80s cuts.

And oh, the irony. We were supposed to have professional pictures taken this morning, but I had to cancel them because LBD woke up with swollen, pink eyes (first time ever--I swear they just know). And then they do this. Luckily D could give a rat's ass. I'm the one who has been traumatized by it.

Because now, every time I look at my daughter, a Joan Jett song pops into my head.