Who You Calling Scaredy Cat?

When I say that I pretty much never lock my doors and sometimes leave at least one wide open (all night), I hope you will not consider this a Small Town cliche. To prove it, I'll add that I have lost all the keys to the house (except for the one to the basement door, which is more like a gateway to spiderwebbed hell) so even if I wanted too, I couldn't lock the doors. Unless I was inside all of them. Or wanted to get back inside through the gateway to hell.

But in the interest of avoiding a home invasion nerve-raddled freak out while 3v1 solo, I have taken to locking the doors at night. Locking 'em. Double-checking 'em. Leaving lights on. Don't lock anything at all during the day which is really pretty stoopid since the bad guys probably come right on in while I'm out and are currently hiding in the basement as I type. (Oh good god: did I just say that out loud? Think happy thought, think happy thoughts.) (Duh. Why would would anyone spend any more than one or two minutes down there in hell with the spiders and one stinkin' lightbulb and ten years worth of crap.) (See? All better now.)

So last night, while I had one child in my bed, two others in another bed down the hall, and me all happy with my Vanity Fair, everything quiet and cozy and tucked away, I heard voices. Loud voices. A man and a woman. Talking. IN MY HOUSE. 

I reached for my home defense mechanism phone and shushed my thumping heart to listen. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP, I shouted to myself, silently, THERE ARE PEOPLE -- TALKING -- IN MY HOUSE! 

I do a weird tip-toe/run type of thing down the hall to get the two other kids and figure I will drag them back to my room by their hair since they sleep like frickin' logs and I can no longer carry them.  And then I will barricade the door (with what? a table? Vanity Fair? piles of laundry? oh my god oh my god) and then I will call the police and open the windows and scream for my neighbors. But not wishing to scare them, I spend 2.5 seconds wondering what I might scream and think is "oh yoo hoo, oh yoo hoo, neighbors? hellooooo? good evening? THERE ARE SCARY BAD PEOPLE IN MY HOUSE! WAKE THE EFF UP AND COME AND SAVE US ALL!"

And while hovering over the children wondering ala Sophie's Choice which one to save first, I hear the words "flat iron." Wha? Did the home invader just say "flat iron"? As in flat freaking iron that I use to burn my neck get all prettified? 

I stand up. My hearts returns to a regular rhythm. I am listening to an infomercial that is blaring from the TV in the playroom. Naturally, I have the only reaction required at a time like that and no, not the one where I wonder why a couple of robbers are watching hair product infomercials in my playroom, but the other one: I.just.get.pissed. 

I stomped downstairs, slammed the off button on the machine, and flipped the bird at the neighbor across the street who clearly has some kind of rogue remote control, the kind that is heart attack inducing at midnight. I returned to my warm, child-filled bed and got back to reading about Tina Fey and what she considers to be her "big ass."

I shoved the lump over to the other side (I love her but please), heard some sleepy kid sighs from the other room, turned off the light, and realized how very little of my amazing incredibly brave heroism these kids will ever know.