Do You like to be Scared?

****As a child, my uncle would tell me about Postavesula, he lived in the upstairs closet near the attic in my grandparents house. Turned out he just didn’t want us going upstairs. My grandfather use to use Postavettula who lived beneath the basement stairs to scare us from going down there. Is it any wonder that I see boogeymen everywhere?’

Yesterday T and me get home after school/work. Soccer had been cancelled due to rain so I was looking forward to a nice evening at home.

We arrive at the apartment, gather up all the bags that are required and head into the apartment. T stops when we get to the bottom of the stairs and looks at me. ‘Did you leave the t.v. on?’ ‘What? You were the last one watching it you were suppose to turn it off!’

We look at one another. Shrug our shoulders. T starts to watch Youtube as I putter around getting supper. I am replaying our morning over in my mind and realize that the television was not on when I came home in between dropping T off and leaving for work myself.

The hairs on the back of my neck start to stand up. Omg there might be a serial killer in the apartment? Would M have come in and watched my t.v. as opposed to laying in the comfort of her own bed? Never (and just so we can be clear, I did ask this question of M.)

Without alerting T, I slink into his room to ensure that 1) his closet doors are still open and 2) there is no one there. So far so good. I enter my room. T.V. borrowed still here, so J did not come and pick up. I stand back from my closet, reach out and push the door open. Jump about two feet when I realize that the satanic clown is not about to jump out from behind my dress and stab me.

Last but not least, I check the linen closet. Thank goodness, I sigh a deep breath of relief, there are no killer clowns in my house.

But wait……I head in to the storage area where the cats litter boxes are. I need to do my daily scoop. It is dark. Only one little light. And nothing under the stairs.

My breath catches in my throat. I can hear breathing, a wet gasping breath coming from beneath the stairs. I squeak and rush back out into the hallway. All of two feet away.

T is sitting at the computer. Nonchalantly I lean against the counter and appraise my eight year old son. Yep, he can do it.

‘Hey buddy. I need you to come with me. But I cannot tell you why. Not until I am done.’

‘Where am I going mom?’

‘I need you to come with me. I have scared myself. But I can’t tell you right now just come with me.’

And he does. Yes my eight year old son is my knight in shining armor. As I hovered over the litter boxes scooping the poop and pee, T is chatting away behind me. About how smelly the big chunks of pee and poop are. And what am I scared of? And are we almost done yet?

Finally I am finished. We head into the kitchen. T looks at me quizzically. Do I, his mother admit that I scared myself with my own imagination? Or do I ask him to just……oh hell gotta admit the truth.

So I did. And T looked at me. Looked at the storage space. Looked at me again and shook his head.

In my defense, when I was a child I was easy to scare. And I may have mentioned before but I love it. Going down the hallway to the bathroom I would turn on my bedroom light, the kitchen light, the light in my mom’s room and just as I was about to hit the light to the bathroom my mom would call ‘Jay, are you okay?’

Every time. And every time she would scare the shit out of me and I would run screaming back down the hallway to her. We would both laugh.

I have an overactive imagination and I can scare myself without even meaning to. Yes I admit that I am using my son as my defender. Yes I admit that I love to scare myself. And it is all in fun. Rationally I knew no one else but us was here, irrationally, a mad clown hid under my steps.

Apple…..Tree

I am a rather sarcastic person. My humor tends to be a little rough. Not quite as rough as fart jokes, but it can be a little rough. I make smart ass  comments in an aside to M all the time. Than we giggle like little school girls. However, I never realized quite how much T takes after me until last evening.

Soccer practice was cancelled due to rain. Rain had stopped but the fields were a mess so Thursday it will be an hour and a half practice. (Wohoooooooo) T and me are at home and I have informed him that he must come and help me with the dishes. All I needed for him to do was put the dishes away. First we bartered about how much money this was going to earn him. I informed him that at the end of the week I would let him know how much money he earned so long as he did what I asked.

This lead to a conversation of how unfair it was, that none of his other friends ever had to do chores. I responded with ‘I am not their parent, I am yours. And to teach you to be a responsible adult, you are going to learn to do chores. Do you know why buddy?’ He looks at me like I am crazy. ‘Because life as an adult is one never ending chore. I clean the house, I do laundry, I work, I make your lunch, I cook dinner, I do and do and do……with the possibility of getting fifteen minutes in at the end of the day, before I fall asleep.’

He stared at me and blinked his eyes before grabbing the cutting board and asking where it went. Our conversation as he put away the plates, the wine glasses, was the daily things all people talk about. Nothing you would attach significance to. Finally as the sink is empty of all put the cutlery I begin to wash the dishes.

I had been making a steak last week to a request of rare. I had never ever cooked a steak rare, I am a well done kinda girl. So I had my probe thermometer out and googled it to ensure I had the right temperature and score!!!! I did it. That aside, it was in the sink with the cutlery, stem pointing up so I cautioned T to be careful so he didn’t poke himself. He proceeds to take the thermometer out and spin it around the counter. By now I have washed my cutlery twice and want to rinse it off and put in other sink to dry.

‘Hey buddy, do you think you could take the cutlery out? Just grab it and put on counter. Than you can put in the drawer.’

‘Sure mom.’ And he does. Grabbing two pieces of cutlery at a time. Two!

I can feel my jaw clench as I grind my back teeth. Like seriously grab all the cutlery.

‘Dude what are you doing? Grab some more. Like this’

I reach over and scoop up all the cutlery and dump it on the counter. I look at him standing behind me and he is grinning from ear to ear.

‘Like dude, seriously why didn’t you do that?’

‘Because mom, there might have been something in there that would have poked me.’

And his eight year old voice took on that forced falsetto all men do when they are imitating women. Only he was mocking his mother! I stared at him for a minute as my brain tried to process the fact that my child had just turned my words around on me in the perfect sarcastic play that I actually envy. I played right into his clever little hands. (We all know he didn’t plan it; it just played out this way) I tried to glare but he knew I was faking as I hollered ‘why you little booger!’ T chortled with glee and I kicked him in the butt and we both laughed.

Honestly as I write this I am giggling away. He is so much like me that it is unbelievable. He is also so much like his father. And yet, he is so uniquely himself. This little boy, no not even, he is becoming a young man….the evolution is slow and I hope it will be good, but he is no longer my little baby. As funny as he is.

****I did not come up with this title. I stole it from a friend who said this to me after I told ’em the story.