I received this exact text from my husband today:
“hope your xlose…i am prisomer”
My reaction was poor. “WHAT?? I can’t leave the house for 2 measley hours to run errands without you needing me to come home and rescue you from your 4 yr old daughter?? Who rescues me when I’m home with both girls all day, every day! For the rest of my young life!”
Play the martyr often, do we?
Granted, I said all this in my head. Still…there it was.
When I got home, I was greeted at the door by my firstborn.
“Where is your father?”
Norah led me to her dark bedroom where I found my husband tied up with three ropes, his phone clutched in his hands. He couldn’t bring the phone above his waist because his hands were held fast by a rope looped about his feet. He also had a rope around his neck. I saw the red marks on his wrist where he tried to wiggle out. I wish I’d taken a picture.
Could he have gotten out? I honestly don’t know. He looked securely tied. These were sturdy ropes; the kind Scott uses to tie kayaks to cars.
Norah does love tying knots. She sometimes ties my skirts strings to the kitchen drawers when I’m cooking. I almost destroy myself, dinner, or a drawer when I turn to walk away. We are ever untying the most complex tiny knots from headphone cords, blanket tassels, silk streamers…
Should we be afraid? Or proud?