Tied up in knots

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?