Last night, I woke up to Rob leaping out of bed.
In the light of the moon, I saw him throw his arm back ready to punch. My heart gripped in terror. Was someone in our room?
WAS I GONNA DIE?!
Once my eyes adjusted, the only person I saw was Rob – winding up to punch our wall clock.
It should be noted: if you are an adult sleep talker (or sleep puncher), I am not the kind of person who will be compassionate, soothing, and gently lull you back to bed. I want to be that person, but I’m not. If you wake me and freak me the eff out with your nonsense, I will launch into a Tourrett’s like waterfall of obscenities. I don’t even know where I’ve learned half these words – all I know is that survival is my #1 priority.
Once Rob woke up to me cussing like a Navy Seal instructor and realized he was about to destroy my clearanced Isaac Mizrahi clock, he apologized and slipped back into bed. Did his apology cause my heart to wiggle out of my throat back into its proper place? No, but we could discuss that in the morning.
Just as I began to drift back to sleep, a loud, booming crash sounded INSIDE OUR HOME. If I could describe the sound, it was as if a desk had been flipped over.
SOMEONE IS MURDERING ME FOR REAL THIS TIME!
I realized Rob had actually woke and reacted to something real that was now somewhere in my house about to make me the star of the next Netflix murder documentary.
I screamed out in total, unbridled terror.
It should be noted: I don’t scream like women do in the movies. Like those high pitched kinds that actually take a lot of energy to belt out?
No, no. My screams are low, gritty and throaty – like a blend of Joan Rivers and James Earl Jones trying to shout down a guy who’s running off with a purse.
That is the sound I delivered into the night.
Rob and I launched from bed. We ran into the family room and from there, Rob ran into into kitchen to grab a knife.
It should be noted: the knife he picked was the same dull, semi useless one I used right before bed to slice off a hunk of ham because I got hungry. It still had pieces of ham and mustard on it. If the knife could even break skin, which was doubtful, I was at least assured the mustard would sting the murderer real bad.
Rob searched the house with his dull ham knife while I stood in the hallway in front of the girl’s rooms, not quite sure what to do with my hands.
Rob emerged from the basement.
“Did you see furniture tipped over?”
“Had we dreamt it?”
Uh? Like – both of us? No.
We reluctantly headed back to our bedroom when Rob put his arm out to stop me. There it was. A large bag of toys we stick on the shower wall above the girl’s bathtub had fallen and crashed into the tub.
That’s why I screamed into the night. That’s why Rob scoured the house with a dull mustard knife in his underwear.
In our defense, the bag was big and the boom was loud, mkay?
“The suction cup on that thing leaves a lot to be desired,” I muttered.
Rob nodded. “Want some ham?”
I checked on the girls who were both lying freaky still like vampires, yet breathing softly, completely unmoved by the chaos that had swirled around them.
Bruno, our English Bulldog just laid there like a sausage, blinking drowsily – and quite frankly – judging us.
We may not have been almost murdered, but one thing was for sure – Rob and I don’t do well in a crisis.