Chris had evening training yesterday and wasn't going to be home until 9:00 or later, so Tucker and I were on our own for the evening. About the time night fell, Tucker went up to his room to entertain himself. He was playing jazz music or something, but just loud enough that I could tell he was doing so. I was in the office working, and everything was swell.
Then, I heard four loud pounding noises. It sounded like it was coming from the basement, but I ran upstairs to check on Tucker anyway. We had this conversation:
Me: What was that?
Tucker: What was what?
Me: That noise.
Tucker: What noise?
Me: It's okay if you made it, I just want to know what it was.
Tucker: What are you talking about?
Me: Never mind.
Tucker: Maybe the cat knocked something over?
But the cat was asleep in my bed, and it wasn't that kind of noise anyway. Since the noise couldn't be explained by boy, cat, or dog (the dog was with Tucker), the logical conclusion was that someone was beating on the large glass doors in the basement. I ran downstairs and locked the door that leads to the basement and sat in a chair in the living room where that door, and all the other exterior doors, were visible.
My heart was pounding a little as I calculated how much time I'd have if someone tried to break through the measly door between us and the basement. Fifteen seconds if it was a large guy, a minute or two if it was a weakling. Even I could break into that door.
Then I realized my phone was in the office. If someone did try to break in, I'd need my phone. The hall to the office passes right by the basement door. You guys, I was like a pajama-laden ninja until I laid hands on my phone and the obnoxiously loud ring tone went off. Heart attack, but only a teensy one, because it was Chris calling.
He was getting out of his meeting early and coming home. We had this conversation:
Me: There was a huge pounding noise, someone was trying to get into the basement.
Chris: What? No one ever comes out to our house. It's fine.
Me: They didn't get in yet. I didn't hear glass breaking.
Chris: There's no one trying to get in. (You guys, in my defense, this is the same man that fusses when I don't lock the deadbolt, because that is like "inviting someone to steal our stuff." Seriously, Chris. Choose a platform here.)
Me: I don't remember which gun is loaded. Also, you should probably teach me to shoot them.
Chris: You aren't strong enough to pull them back!
Me: I can shoot a rifle. I know how to shoot a rifle. Just tell me which one.
Chris: The (name of gun) is always loaded.
Me: Ok. Point that one out to me when you get home. (Turns out that gun is on the highest gun rack for safety. Out of reach of children. And me.)
Also, it turns out that no one was trying to get into the house. Honestly, if anything was beating on the glass in the basement, it's a thousand times more likely that the thing would be a deer. Because deer hate our basement; it's happened before.
None of this kept me from imagining crackles in the glass when I went down early this morning to get the laundry. For a few seconds, I had an elaborate conversation with Chris in my head where I pointed out the non-existing cracks and chided him for not believing me. And he was super guilty and sorry.
And then I had to become a 30-something mother instead of an 8-year-old girl, because there were lunches to be made.