When I was a child, I had a pretty healthy fear of knives and scissors.  I'm pretty sure it stems from the time my little sister cut my mother's finger with a pair of sewing scissors.  She was a baby at the time and I guess she reached over while my mother was cutting something and closed them on her finger.  All I really remember about it is my mother returning from the ER with a giant gauze bandage on her finger.  It made a pretty big impact on me.  What I understood, at about the age of 4, was that my sister had cut off my mom's finger and the doctor sewed it back on.  I guess that's what I made of the idea of stitches.

We no longer trust my sister with anything sharp or hot!  (Love you sister!!!)

As an adult that fear of sharp objects remains.  No, I am not afraid to use knives or scissors.  Instead, I am pretty well convinced that if my kids ever get their hands on them, they will manage to cut me, each other, or themselves.  Terrified.

I have managed to successfully pass down that terror to my son.  From the time he was born, I stopped calling the sharp instruments, knives or scissors.  Rather, they were the owie scissors and owie knives.  I wanted it clear that anything sharp = pain!

I should add here that I have no qualms whatsoever of passing on my own fears to my children.  Especially when it's a rational fear.  (Yes, fear of escalators is totally rational!!!)

My daughter knows no fear.  Especially when it comes to playing with dangerous objects.

Recently she climbed up on top of the kitchen counter and retrieved the kitchen scissors.  She brought them to me along with her pet tissue box, "boxy."  "I can't cut this.  Can you help me cut this?"

Needless to say I freaked out.  And that's putting it mildly.  As I took the scissors away from her she said, "but I wanted to cut my toenails with them."

Sharp "Owie" Scissors

One of us is going to end up in the ER one of these days.  Either for a toe reattachment or heart attack!

The knife block has been relocated to the top of the fridge.  I am holding my breath that she doesn't figure out how to climb up there.

The other day, I made my son a sandwich.  I put the plate on the table and he asked me to cut the sandwich for him.
Sure thing.

I took the butter knife, that I had used to spread the peanut butter with, and cut the sandwich.

"Sharp" Owie Knife

I stood up and turned.  Unfortunately, knife still held out in cutting position.  Oops.

Just at that moment the Peanut came running across the room towards me.  He stopped eyeball to knife point.

I kind of freaked.

"That is why you are not supposed to run in the house!!!"  "You almost stabbed yourself in the eye with this knife."

He was pretty freaked out too.

In fact, now every time he sees me with a knife in my hand, he squeals, jumps back and cries, "don't cut me!"

A couple of days later my husband started to scold me.

"The Peanut told me what you did."

"What did I do?"

"How you were walking with a sharp knife and almost stabbed him in the eye!"

"Seriously??!!!  Oh, heck no!"

I clarified the circumstances to my husband.

One of these days the Peanut is going to get me in serious trouble!!!

I promise, I don't beat my children and I certainly don't go around stabbing them in the eyeball with sharp knives!!  No, matter what they might tell you!