Kids are brain damaged

Yesterday I spent the afternoon helping Caden put together his Valentines box for school. Even though we still had a few days before the actual day, Caden was panicking that his box was not ready (even though his teacher had just told the kids on Friday to make one). I guess this is one trait he has picked up from me: fretting over deadlines. I hate to be late to things, I hate being behind on projects, and it’s just so heartwarming to see my son get wrapped up in knots over a box covered with paper hearts and racecar stickers. Ah…

Since church is over for me by 11:30 a.m. and I don’t eat with my family until 6 p.m., I have quite a bit of time to kill and I like to slay some of it by resting my weary head for a few moments. I left Caden to his devices (for shame, for shame) and went upstairs to enjoy what was a pleasantly warm afternoon (high 40’s! whoohoo!). Thirty minutes later I came back down. Yes, it was only a thirty minute nap – sigh. But I think it was so short because my internal mother alarm system woke me up with flashing lights saying, “Go see what your son has just done.”

I walked down the stairs and as I came around the landing, I noticed on the carpet was a little clump of hair. A little further away was a pair of scissors. A little further beyond that was more hair. “What the…?” I wondered as I picked up the hair, hoping beyond hope that Caden had stashed some doll somewhere I had never known about and was playing barbershop. Wait – I don’t think I would actually be hoping for a hidden doll…

I turned the corner to see Caden jumping around on the couch with a football, throwing it up and down, then jumping onto the floor to kick a soccer ball “that-I-told-you-to-stop-kicking-in-the-house!” and basically just being a flurry of energy and activity. “Caden, what’s with the hair on the floor over there?” He just keeps bouncing around, working up a little sweat on his brow (and for a very good reason). “What, Mom? What are you talking about?” “HAIR. I found HAIR over there on the floor and it looks like your hair. Come here, now.”

Bounce, bounce, bounce, sweat, sweat, sweat a little more.

“Come here, NOW.” He gives me a mischievous little grin and side glance and slowly drags himself over to me. Because he’s been jumping around like crazy, he’s sweating and has pushed his hair back so I can’t immediately discern if anything is wrong.

“What did you do?”


“I’m going to try this again. Did you cut your hair?”

“No! I didn’t cut my hair!”

I grabbed his head, pushed his hair down straight so I could see what was actually wrong and gasped. There it was, a lovely chunk cut out of the front of his hair that was just too obvious not to notice when his hair hung normally and not matted around his head in sweat. Sad to say, I could not control my temper at this point. Those that know me and know me well understand how much I love his hair; he had a 4 yr old aunt chop off all of his baby hair when he was 2 and I cried for days. He’s got such great hair and mothers are always touching and admiring it. Ask my Dad and brother/brothers-in-law about his hair and they roll their eyes because I let it grow “too long” (in their opinion). So Caden daring to chunk out a large section without my say so? BIG time trouble and he knew it.


“I didn’t do it!”

“YOU didn’t CUT your hair? Who did? Did somebody break into the house while I was sleeping and chop your hair off???”

“No…” (whimper, whimper)

“Did the scissors just magically fly towards your face and start cutting your hair???”

“No, Mom!”

“Why, Why, WHY did you cut your HAIR???!!!

“I didn’t DO it!!”

This is where I take a moment to pause and tell you that kids are brain damaged. If you’ve ever heard Bill Cosby speak on kids, you know what I’m talking about. Caden was smart enough to try and cover up the issue by sweating and pushing his hair around. However, he failed to realize that he had no cover story for what actually happened.

“Caden, did I cut your hair?”


“And a stranger didn’t break in and cut your hair now did they?”


“So who’s left.”

Pause. Shoulders shrug.

“Why did you cut your hair?” (I’ve calmed down just a bit by now)

Then the tears come. “I didn’t mean to, Mom! I didn’t!”

There’s really no point in trying to figure out WHY he would do this anymore. He saw scissors, thought ‘Hmmm, wonder what I could do with these’, and proceeded to chop away at his head. Kids are brain damaged.

{I’ll post a pic of his forehead later when I get a change to take one. I made him go to school like that to remind him how ridiculous it is to cut your own hair.}



  1. whitney · February 13, 2008

    Ang, you can’t do a post like this and not leave visual proof!

  2. angelbrew · February 13, 2008

    Crap – you’re right. I’ve got to actually upload the proof (as sad as it is).

  3. Pingback: His new look « The Eyes have it

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