We were sitting around the dinner table last night when I noticed two, clean slices in Mary's shirt. They corresponded exactly with the snips a pair of scissors would make. Both Leah and Mary share the shirt, marking the culprit as one of these two little people. I didn't bother addressing anyone else at the table, for obvious reasons.
Mary, did you cut your shirt?
Are you sure you didn't play with scissors today?
No, I didn't. Serious.
(This is her favorite additive to any statement, giving it instant merit regardless of its actual validity.)
Leah, did you cut this shirt with scissors?
Huh-uh. I didn't even do that at all!
Are you sure, Leah?
Yep, I am so sure! I did NOT touch it with scissors. No way.
(She excitedly swung her hands across her chest in the universal body language for: none, stop, no, I didn't do it, et al.)
Mary, are you sure you didn't use scissors to cut this shirt?
Serious. I didn't. Serious.
I looked between the girls, wondering which line of questioning I should travel next when Caleb decided to announce his own innocence in the debacle:
I have no revolve in this plate!
We are still unsure of exactly what expression he was trying to use, but it certainly got us laughing.