Clara was four feet up the climbing wall at the park when she started to complain. “It’s too hard, Dad!”
“It’s not too hard, Dear. You are fine.”
“No. It hurts!”
“You have barely climbed halfway up. You’ll be fine.”
She groaned and flung her leg out sideways and then released one of her hands, hanging on with only one hand and one foot. Then, without warning, she stuffed her free hand deep into the pocket of her pants.
She turned and gave me a grumpy face.
“What are you doing…?”
Without breaking eye contact, her hand suddenly flung outward and the evening light caught on something metal in her hand. She was holding a long pair of scissors.
We stared at each other as she hung there off the wall, like an angry monkey wielding a sword stolen from a startled jungle explorer.
“Why did you…? Where did you…?” I stammered, “What in the world did you…?”
She just glared at me.
Very cautiously I reached forward and pried the scissors out of her hands. Several intense seconds later she went back to climbing up the wall.