The other day I thought I was going to die. So I called Kris at work and tried to convince him there was most likely a serial killer in our house. Then I started to call my sister-in-law because we think a lot alike and I knew she would believe me…but then I hung up because I didn’t want her to convince me (even more) that I was right. Then I called my mom because, if I was going to go out like this, I wanted to talk to her one more time. (Side note: she picked up the phone even though she was in the middle of getting her hair colored just to tell me she would have to call me back. So I didn’t get to tell her about the serial killer, which was probably for the best because my mom has little patience for my high-anxiety shenanigans, but I was reassured of her love for me because anybody that answers their phone in the middle of a hair appointment really must love you. So that made me feel good. #mymomrules)
So anyway, why did I think I was about to die?
Z’s crib mattress was lowered. WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?! I know you all must be freaking out right now. I’m very sorry if I gave you a serious case of the shivers…but now you know how I felt. Z’s mattress was lowered? The horror! Right? Because if there was a serial killer in the house, the first thing they would OBVIOUSLY do is lower the mattress on my baby’s crib. Exactly.
Let me back track a little bit. Lowering the crib mattress is a BIG DEAL. Before we set up the crib Kris and I had a very serious discussion about what height the mattress should be. After much back and forth, putting the best arguments forward, and more discussion we eventually settled on the tallest setting and then we SCREWED IN FOUR BOLTS to hold it in place. Four bolts means it is a HUGE pain in the tookas to adjust (they’re the Allen wrench type and are set in the most awkward place possible), and we wanted to make sure we didn’t have to do it again for a long, long time.
So, imagine my surprise when Saturday morning I waltz into Z’s room to put her in the crib and that mattress was dropped significantly. Blood. Ran. Cold. Here was the list of questions that ran through my head:
- Who is in my house?
- What do they want from me?
- Why did they lower my baby’s mattress?
- What if they went to all the rooms in my house and lowered all of our mattresses?
- I’m scared.
- Lowered mattresses scare me. I can’t go look.
- I feel like I’m trapped in a horror movie.
- SOS SOS SOS I’M BLINKING TWICE
- I need to act like an adult…I’m the only one here… or am I?
- OMG we’re all going to die.
I had a couple of options at this point. Option 1: Run away. Option 2: Curl up in a ball on the floor and cry. Option 3: Call Kris, again.
Since I wasn’t dressed to leave the house just yet (I do have some standards people) I took option 1 off the table. Since I didn’t want to be deemed unfit to parent my children and I was in charge of their safety as well as mine, I had to say goodbye to option 2. That left me with calling Kris…again.
I don’t remember everything he said, but I’m sure it was something like this:
Then he told me it was probably the cats.
Now to be fair, Kris blames everything on the cats. He and they used to be friends, but somewhere between Mr. Chuckles and Super Nova tearing up our couches and throwing up on our floor and their food allergies and their poop that smells like marijuana and the eating of plastic bags…Kris just.can’t.even. anymore with them. So they are usually high up on the list of people to be blamed when things go wrong. (Yes, I said people.)
A is missing a shoe? The cats stole it.
Z started crying? The cats were wrestling too close to her.
It’s raining outside? The cats did a voodoo dance to make our lives miserable.
You get the picture.
Anyway, I get that he was busy at work. I mean other people were probably calling him to talk about their mortgages and loans and you know, financial stuff, and I’m all like, “Hey the mattress is lowered, and I’m really scared.”
So he tells me, “It’s probably the cats.”
That’s when it hit me. It probably really was the cats. About an hour prior to what I will now refer to as “The Big Scary Incident” the cats had gone tearing through the house at top speed towards Z’s room. And if you must know, my cats are super fast. Like, really super fast.
In my panic, I had forgotten about Mr. Chuckles’ new talent. And when I say Mr. Chuckles, picture a 17.6lb bowling ball with fur.
Recently he had begun using Z’s crib as a springboard to the windowsill on which he really could stick a pretty impressive landing. #OlympicCat
It was all coming together now.
I wrote it in math form:
Mr. Chuckles traveling down the hall at 60 mph, hurling through the air at another…let’s say 60 mph, dropping onto the mattress at the force of gravity at ummm…I’m gonna go with 60 mph, springing up to the windowsill equals???
Mr. Chuckles in Z’s room with his big tubby body LOWERED THE MATTRESS.
PS. We all survived.