In Hiding

When I was a kid, I had a recurring nightmare in which I was running through a dark house, desperately searching for some place to hide. Although I couldn’t see anyone, I sensed that someone or something was chasing me. I would locate a closet, dive inside, pull the door shut behind me, and then silently pray that I wouldn’t be found. When I awoke, heart thumping in my throat, I would peer through bleary eyes around my bedroom to ensure that neither ghost nor serial murderer lurked in its shadowy corners.

I was reminded of this nightmare a while back when I found myself crouching on the floor of my bedroom closet while I tried to have a telephone conversation with my mother. I ducked behind the bathrobes and floor-length dresses to avoid detection. It was not an ax-welding maniac or a disgruntled spirit that sought me, but rather my children, aged 5 years and 18-months old (cue the shower-scene soundtrack from “Psycho”).

For whatever reason, my offspring seem to have a sixth sense for those moments when their mother (or father) needs to have the ability to concentrate on a task that doesn’t directly revolve around them (paying bills, fixing dinner, having a phone conversation, showering, and going to the bathroom to name a few). At those moments, everything takes on a sudden urgency. Case in point:

R: (Standing outside the bathroom door.) Whatcha’ doin’ mom?

Me: I’m in the bathroom.

R: When will you be done?

Me: Well, son, I don’t currently have an estimated time of departure, but I’ll be sure to send out a bulletin as soon as I know.

R: What does that mean?

Me: Never mind. What do you need?

R: I need you to see something. It’s REALLY important, and I need your help.

Me: (Wondering which of his body parts is requiring medical attention.) What’s wrong?

R: The arm fell off of my Ninja Turtle; I can’t get it back on.

These types of conversations have led to further discussions regarding what constitutes an emergency in our house. Here’s a handy checklist for future reference:

1. Has anyone in the house turned blue and stopped breathing?

2. Is anyone bleeding profusely enough that they are going to stain the furniture or carpet without immediate medical application of a tourniquet?

3. Do you see or smell smoke or flames?

4. Has a catastrophic natural disaster occurred within 5 miles of our house? Is our house still standing?

5. Has the local news station announced that apocalypse is impending? (In this case, there is nothing any of us can do anyway, so please let me finish my last shower on Earth in peace.)

Under her brother’s tutelage, K has learned that the best time to do-something- that-your-parents-would-never-let-you-do-under-normal-circumstances is when they are distracted. This is how she has managed to eat potting soil (fixing lunch), bite the tip off of a blue marker (tying R’s shoelace), pull every children’s book we own off of the bookcase (trying to get rid of a carpet-cleaning salesman), and drive her toy car over a flower bed and down a hill (opening a bottle of bubbles).

Of course, some of this could be me too. While engaged in a non-child related task, I’ve become so adept at blocking out non-essential noise (car crash and weaponry-related sounds made with the mouth, sibling squabbling, whining of any kind, the 1,000-decibel singing of camp songs, and the repetitive chanting of a just-learned word) that I sometimes don’t hear or process things going on around me. Don’t judge. It’s called self-preservation. The resulting conversations go something like this:

Scene: In the kitchen, fixing dinner, TV is blaring in the background, K is pleading with me to “Pease up” (pick me up) over and over, while I step over a layer of alphabet magnets on my way to drain noodles over the kitchen sink.

R (Enters stage left): Mom, I want to make a headband like the Indians wore.

Me: Mmm hmm. That’s a good idea. (Stumbles over the letter V.)

R: I need construction paper.

Me: Check downstairs.

R (Exits stage left and returns 5 minutes later.)

R: Now I need scissors.

Me: (Stirring spaghetti sauce while K clings to the back of my calf like a baby koala bear.) Ask your dad.

(Exits)

(Returns with scissors)

R: I need tape.

Me: (Retrieves tape from junk door. Curses under breath because junk drawer won’t close. Makes mental note to clean out junk drawer. Continues to stir spaghetti sauce, which is now bubbling, splattering flecks of red over the range top. K continues her quest for parental domination. Get K a cracker because right calf is going numb. 10 minutes pass.)

R: (Returns and holds up brown strips of paper.) Look Mom, I made one for me and one for K.

Me: (Banging a bag of frozen broccoli against the counter.) That was nice.

R: (Thoughtfully) I don’t know how to keep them on our heads though.

Me: Mmm hmmm. (Pours broccoli into microwavable dish and adds water. K is out of cracker and resumes wailing. Wonders if the pasta is a little too “al-dente.” Adds spices to pasta sauce. Gets fed up with alphabet magnets and starts putting them back on the fridge. Finds some measuring cups to appease K.)

R: Mom, are you listening to me?

Me: (Absentmindedly) Mmm hmmm. (Removes sauce from stove. Stirs broccoli. Wipes up sauce splatters. Gets K a drink of water.)

R: So where’s the stapler?

Me: (Snaps back to attention) Why do you need the stapler?

R: You said I could staple the headbands to make them stay on me and K’s hair.

Me: I don’t remember saying that.

R: (Indignantly) You did too! You said “mmm hmm.”

He’s got me there.