The boys were asleep. I was preparing to take a long overdue shower. It had been a rough day of crossfitting, manicuring, eating, and playgrounding. I had been outside with the boys for the better part of four hours this afternoon. I was smelly and tired. A shower was just what I needed to recharge enough to get through some Yoy administrative work. Mr. Yoy had a dinner thing, so I anticipated a quiet night at home.
I peeled off my workout clothes and dropped them into the empty laundry hamper (pat myself on the back for that one). I took two steps towards the bathroom and there I saw him. He stood a mere three feet tall, but his presence was grand enough to startle me.
I shrieked with fear.
I stumbled backwards and my foot got stuck underneath the ottoman. All bets were off. My limbs flailed and I fell back onto the chair. It was a fall of epic comedic proportions. Melissa McCarthy would have been mad jealous if she saw this move.
Big E just stood there. Mouth open. Then he laughed.
Not me. I cried. The reaction I have to pure, unadulterated fear is tears. This is the second time Big E has done this to me, and I've had the same reaction both times.
In exchange for the attempted heart attack, I hope Big E has seared into his brain the image of his haggard mom tripping over herself and busting a** onto a chair. All without a stitch of clothing on.
Therapy awaits, my son.