I live in a subdivision that has attempted break-ins on a bi-monthly basis.
I'm always peeking out the front window to catch a glimpse of whatever shady sh*t is going on.
Tonight I was in the throws of laundry hell. I like to wait until our laundry pile resembles Jabba the Hut in both smell and size and actually talks to me before I can commit.
FOR THE LOVE OF PETE JUST WASH ME ALREADY.
So I did. All five loads.
The boys were asleep. I had just finished meticulously folding a hand towel to put into our guest bathroom.
As I rounded the laundry room corner, I saw him. Standing in the dark in his snug fit jammies.
I levitated off the ground. My beautifully folded towel somehow left my hand and hurled itself at Big E's sinister face. A scream escaped my mouth before I had time to remember my other son WAS still asleep.
On the terrified spectrum, I would rate this encounter somewhere between the final scene in The Blair Witch Project (the one where they are standing in a corner facing a wall a la Poodle Yoy during a bad storm) and that moment you think you see a ghost boy hiding behind the curtains in Three Men and a Baby (maybe watch it again on super slow-mo to validate this claim).
And then I cried. Like a baby. They weren't even sad tears, they were just my body's reaction to Big E's hallway surprise party.
I did learn an important lesson this evening.
If (maybe when?) it is our turn to be robbed, I'm going to fend off the bad guys by hurling Downy-infused brocaded hand towels at them.
Handguns are so overrated.