Harper wanted a Frozen Elsa glass piggy bank.

Not plastic.

Not silicone.

Not “safe for households with toddlers and impulsive gravity experiments.”

Glass.

We tried to talk her out of it. We explained it was fragile. We used words like breakable and sharp and this will absolutely end in tears. She listened thoughtfully, nodded, and explained that Elsa needed a home for her monies and dollars.

Rookie mistake for parents who have been doing this for twenty-three years.

For context:

We are the youngest parents in our oldest kids’ parent group

and the oldest parents in our youngest kids’ parent group.

Translation: we are tired and make questionable decisions.

So Elsa came home.

Elsa lived briefly.

Elsa then met the floor.

Her braid snapped clean off which, if you’re unfamiliar with Frozen law, is essentially Elsa’s soul leaving her body. Life was over. Childhood was ruined. History would remember this moment.

Enter me.

Super Mom.

Hero.

Idiot.

I remembered I had super glue. Leftover from fixing the theater poster frames side note: do not order framed posters from Trends. Beautiful art. Frames held together by wishes and spite.

Important background information:

Super glue and I have a long, toxic history.

I have never successfully glued anything together.

I have, however, glued myself to many things.

But my three-year-old needed me.

And her father was nowhere to be found (fine, he was in the shower, but let me have my narrative).

So I attempted to glue Elsa’s braid back on.

I failed.

What I did succeed at was gluing my hands together.

Then gluing my hands to my hair.

Now here’s where it gets poetic:

This is the same hair that caught on fire two weeks ago.

So there I am. Naked. Because shower.

Standing in front of far too many mirrors.

With my hand glued to my head.

Trying to remember if super glue is heat-activated or if I’m just about to live like this forever.

Super glue is the devil.

I grabbed scissors.

I now have layers.

They look… good?

Unintentional.

My daughter-in-law, who is also my hair girl, may disown me next week. We’ll see.

The good news:

All of our kids showed up for dinner tonight. Every single one. Even if just for a few minutes. (Minus Justin, who had to work, because adulthood is rude.)

The bad news:

I now need a new Elsa piggy bank that is not ceramic.

I can sew. Maybe they make fabric piggy banks?

What happened to us going cashless as a society?

Honestly? Not sounding terrible right now.

Anyway.

Elsa died.

I survived.

My hair did… something.

No lessons.

No growth.

Just chaos.

And somewhere in the house, super glue is laughing.