The Mourning After...

Well, this is the thing: my sweet adorable baby girl who I love beyond reason, stole an axe.  This was not a small little hatchet but a large regular sized axe that could cut down a tree (or whatever else which I shudder to think about it.) Axe as in "Lizzie Borden took an axe..." She stole it out of our neighbor's shed (which I thought was locked but my dear baby girl has a way with locks.) My husband spoke to our neighbor about this today and confirmed that it was his axe. He said that our neighbor was "concerned" about safety issues. Yeah, so am I. She has a way with locks and also a way of knowing then to strike if something is left unlocked and unattended for two minutes or less. And she can find whatever she wants in two seconds flat and be out before you know she was ever gone.

When she was a toddler, we would go to the beach and I would turn my head for a split second and she was gone. I would find her later half way down the beach sitting on a stranger's blanket eating potato chips. You know the expression: "May you be in heaven a full half-hour before the devil knows you're dead. Kind of like that.

The thing is that this happened in October - probably a good six months ago and we never knew. So our anger seems a little misplaced right now. Anger? That's not it exactly. There is really a sense of sheer terror about this situation. That axe was sitting under the snow for months. I am sure that she probably totally forgot about it and if we spoke to her about it, I'm sure she would say something like "that was months ago and you are not allowed to talk to me about this now."

Yelena is not self destructive. Her idea of a suicidal act is breaking a pencil in half and making scratch marks on her arm. I don't really think she would intentionally hurt my husband or me but I am also not sure how well she knows her own strength. The only time she actually did hurt me (she threw a paper weight at my head and I had three stitches) she was totally remorseful and very sorry. She is, however, destructive. Everything she touches breaks. I used to call her "my little destructo-matic."