Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Another One For The List.

Husband is out playing baseball, the kids have been in bed (and actually quiet) for about an hour. I am sitting on the couch, reading a book and ignoring the boxes glaring at me. All is quiet. All is calm.

Sadly, my book isn't all that good, even though I enjoyed the first ones quite a bit. It takes something really special to make a seven book series interesting. I find that they veer off into the absurd around book four. You get the feeling that the author was going somewhere definite, but got sidetracked by watching the nature channel, so now the book about dragons should also be about polar bears, and things get a little confusing...

I jump, startled to hear a rather loud click from upstairs. I'm not entirely used to all the house noises yet, so I'm still surprised every once in a while.

I go back to my book.

I hear a thump, from the vicinity of the click.

I put down my book and tiptoe to the doorway to peer into the darkened hall.

I hear a scuffling noise, and some grunting, coming from the top of the stairs.

I grab my phone and clutch it to my chest, as I rack my brain trying to imagine when someone (thing?) could have gotten into my house. While I was putting things away in the playroom? While I was tucking in and singing lullabies? Could someone have been in here since I left the door open while I brought the garbage cans in this afternoon?

Damnit! How, in all of my considerations about moving, did the increased availability of hiding spots for serial killers not enter my mind?!

I need to be brave; my babies are up there!

I bravely tiptoe to the foot of the stairs, still clutching the phone, and peek around the bannister. Nothing. Dimly lit hallway. 

There it is again. I steel my nerves and start up the stairs.

Suddenly, a misshapen figure lurches into view. It grunts and stumbles into the wall.  I scramble back down the stairs to flip on the lights.

A startled eye blinks guiltily down at me through the tufts of golden hair poking out of an opening in the side of a fuzzy orange blob; a small arm waves limply through the hole in the top.

Not an axe murderer after all. Kee had gotten stuck while trying to get out of the two-years-too-small Halloween costume she'd decided to wear as pajamas, and now needed an intervention so that she could use the toilet.

Just one more thing I never thought I'd need to say to anyone: "No. You may not wear your pumpkin to sleep in."

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