Never a dull moment in the Mullet household....

I decided yesterday when working on a blog post (which I haven’t yet finished and hopefully will post later this week) that I had to post something about Leanne.  It has been only about 30 hours since making that decision, and she has already foddered me with plenty of subject matter.

The inspiration came to me as I sat at the kitchen table trying to drown out the noise as I focused on my writing.  I was doing a decent job at it, too, considering there were three of them sitting at the table with me coloring with crayons.  As I sat with my earbuds in my ears, however, I became gradually aware of the conversation I had hitherto been ignoring.

It’s fascinating how your brain can rewind and analyze sounds seconds after hearing them without actually being conscious of hearing them.  I apparently had been listening to tiny snapping sounds for some time, and when I heard Leanne say, “Oh, neat, let me try!” I put two and two together and recognized the sound of snapping crayons.

My eyes jerked up from my screen and clapped on Leanne, holding a crayon in a particular way. Bracing it with pinky and forefinger, she pressed her thumb against the center. 

“Are you guys breaking the crayons?” I cried indignantly.

“Yeah!  Watch this!”  What talent.  She could break crayons with one hand.

“Stop!  You can’t do that!”

“But they’re mine!” Leanne said gleefully.

“Just because something is yours,” I said, sagely, “doesn’t mean you can destroy it.  Now stop breaking the crayons and use them properly!”

She did as she was told.  Unfortunately, her featherbrained conception of ‘good ideas’ sometimes hurt more than just crayons.

We sent the kids to bed fairly early yesterday and I was in my room by 8:30 and sat down once more to struggle over the same blog post (again, it’s coming – it’ll be here soon).  All had been quiet in the kid’s rooms for a little while, when suddenly I heard a tremendous thud resound through the house.

There is something very distinct about the sound of a child falling out of a top bunk bed, and that is exactly the sound I had heard.

I scrambled for the door.  I was across the hall in two seconds.  Lacey met me, coming out from the girls’ room, and I nearly collided with Lane, coming out of his.

“Leanne fell,” Lacey said, her eyes huge, “out of the top bunk.”

I approached Leanne, lying in a heap on the rug covering the hard wood floor and wailing fit to die.  She was clutching her side. Better than her head, I decided.

“She was leaning over the edge, and then she just fell.”

Steps from behind me signaled the rapid approach of Heather.  She had heard the tremendous thud from all the way in the basement.

“What happened?” she asked, taking my place by Leanne’s side.  She wasn’t surprised to hear the news.  Even from the basement she had recognized the fall-out-of-top-bunk sound.  Leanne was on her feet by now, still crying, but not holding her side.  Heather was told the story, and as she gave Leanne a hug, she and I exchanged looks which were as much as to say, ‘What do they expect, hanging head down from the top bunk?’

But the real clincher on the necessity of writing this post happened today on the way home from school.  I had the three older kids in my car.  Lane sat beside me, the two girls in the back.  I was trying to listen to some hypothetical question Lane was putting to me (he puts a lot of hypothetical questions to anyone he can pin down – often excellent questions, but equally as often they are silly questions about blowing things up and what would happen if x, y, or z were to take place), and at the same time gauging the level of frustration coming from the back seat.  My attention shifted finally from Lane as Lacey’s voice registered at a level just below anger.

“Leanne, look at me!”

“I am looking at you!”

I didn’t need to check the rear-view mirror to know that she wasn’t looking at Lacey.  Lacey would not be angry with her if she was, and Leanne’s voice betrayed a certain amount of rigidity.  She was staring straight ahead with all her might, I’d put my money on it.

“You are not looking at me, Leanne.”

“Yes, I am.”  She was smiling now.

“No, you’re not."  A pause.  I don't know if Leanne pointed to her head, or not, but Lacey said peevishly,  "You do not have eyes on the side of your head.”

Another brief silence, and then Leanne said in a sly, secretive voice.  “Yes, I do.  They’re invisible, so you can’t see them.”