Attack of the Slasher

So, as previously reported, my sister and her kiddos have been visiting for the last few weeks. We've made it through the trip with relatively few incidents -- just a lot of good, clean fun.

That is, until yesterday when my darling niece Grace went upstairs to take a "nap." Now, I don't know what your definition of "nap" is, but mine goes a little something like this: Lie down, close eyes, sleep.

Gracie came downstairs awhile later and it became apparent that her version of "nap" went: Find pair of scissors. Sit on bed. Cut chunky layers into long, gorgeous hair. Leave heaping pile of hair on bed. Hide scissors in closet between two pairs of jeans. Innocently walk downstairs and act as though nothing has happened.

"Um, did you cut your hair?" I asked when I first laid eyes on her.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

I took her out to the back deck, where my sister was sitting at the table.

"Um, did her hair always look this?" I asked my sister.

The look of horror in her eyes was classic, but as a side note this might be a good time to point out that when we were little, she'd been guilty of the same crime. Only hers was actually worse because instead of cutting her own hair, she cut MY bangs.

Back to the present. My sister stormed up the stairs to find the previously mentioned pile of hair, a recently purchased stuffed penguin with a brand new buzz cut and a separate pile of penguin fuzz, but no scissors.

Ordered to retrieve the scissors and hand them over, little Gracie insisted she had "no idea" where they could be. I told her I'd help her look. We returned to the scene of the crime.

"I don't know where they are," Grace said as I looked on the bed, around the bed and under the bed (it was during the bed search that I discovered she'd snipped a jagged corner off my fuzzy green blanket).

"I don't know where they are," she said as I scouted the shelves and drawers in the room.

"I don't know where they are," she said as I started looking through the laundry basket.

Finally: "Maybe you should look in the closet," she suggested.

Of course, in the middle of a neatly folded pile of clothes, there they were. Naturally -- I mean, who doesn't keep scissors there?

The assumption was that we'd seen the worst of the damage. Then my sister put Gracie to bed last night and discovered just how crafty my sweet little niece really is.

It was a clever idea, really. Take the pillow with the chopped up pillow case and put it underneath a pile of unscathed pillows. Put a normal pillow over the hole that cuts not only through the sheets, but the mattress pad underneath as well. Move a blanket over the other hole in the sheets.

Brilliant, really -- until the moment the pillows and blankets are moved and the large, gaping holes are revealed.

Naturally, the follow-up question came: "Gracie, did you cut anything else?"

Her response? "Well, I ... no, nothing else," accompanied by a -- let's be honest -- slightly evil grin.

None of this tops my personal favorite moment, though. When my sister discovered a book with a missing corner sitting by my bed, she picked it up and looked at Grace suspiciously.

"That looks like -- " I started.

"-- a bite mark," my sister finished.

"Yeah," I agreed.

"Did you bite the book?" my sister asked.

"Um, yes," Grace replied, as if: Duh, who hasn't chomped through a book cover recently?

I'm on the suspicious lookout for more damage, but in the meantime I'm really messing with my sister's efforts to be a tough disciplinarian. I know it's not a laughing matter, but ... I can't help myself. Because really, when it comes down to it, it kind of is a laughing matter.