A terrorist?

I used to occasionally pour a glass of cold water on Mark when he was showering. I had forgotten until he reminded me on the drive home tonight which made me laugh so hard I nearly had to pull over. He still doesn't think it's funny...

The reminiscing started because Mark was telling me about how Timothy was standing outside the shower when Mark was showering. When Mark saw eyes peering at him through the clear curtain, it startled him.

The clear liner which hangs with a sheer bolt curtain recently replaced the opaque liner. It was my concession to Mark after nine years of marriage, an admission that I am a terrorist and my most favorite victim is he.

It started out innocently enough. Almost all the experts say that laughter is an important ingredient in marriage. I embraced that little tidbit and decided that I would spice things up a bit and add a little more laughter as well.

One of my favorite things to do was to lay in waiting and pounce out and surprise him. I would hide around corners and jump out.

Once I iced my hand, snuck up where he was resting peacefully in the dark and slowly slipped it onto his bare shoulder.

I hid under our tall 4 poster bed one evening when he was getting ready for bed and when he approached the bed to climb in, I reached out and grabbed his ankle.

Occasionally I would sneak into the bathroom when he was showering and stand on the toilet and peer down at him for minutes at a time. He was so unsuspecting! Eventually he'd look up, catch a glimpse of me and jump out of his skin.

I would rig his clothes too. I've put double stick tape in his underwear, and stickers on the back of his shirts.

Once I found a long, narrow pocket thingy on the front of his underwear, and put his chap stick in it. When he asked if I had seen his chap stick, I played dumb. The next afternoon I called him at work and asked if he had found his chap stick. HE HADN'T! I just started laughing hysterically and at that moment, he became aware of where his chap stick was and made a bee line for the restroom.

One year before Valentine's day, I stuck a few carefully selected conversation hearts in one of the socks he had laid out for the following day. That evening at supper, I asked if he liked the notes I put in his sock. He just looked at me as though he didn't know what I was talking about. He leaned over, pulled off his sock, and about 7 candy hearts fell to the floor. "I thought my foot felt a little uncomfortable today," he said. I was laughing so hard I fell out of my chair.

One of Mark's "isms" used to be to set up the bathroom before he went to fix his breakfast. He'd lay his towel out, open the shower curtain, and spread all his crap across the counter, even putting toothpaste on this toothbrush "to save time". I should have found this all to be endearing, but I didn't. I think it was the toothpaste that put me over the edge. Sometimes as I tried to clear a little spot for my make up bag, I'd knock over the toothbrush and smear toothpaste across the counter and sink. It had to stop! So, I started pulling out a strand of my hair and laying it across his toothpasted toothbrush.

I put my vintage fake barf on his pillow repeatedly.

As the years have passed and our home has filled with kids, my creativity has waned and the practical jokes have become far less frequent. A couple months ago when Mark was in the shower, I playfully reached in and grabbed his arm. Apparently this was the last straw because he barked at me. Chewed me out. Called me a name! My feelings were hurt, but my perspective was straightened a little. These little antics were funny to me, but not to him and he had had enough. I realized as I sheepishly slunk out of the bathroom and crawled into bed for the night that I am a terrorist. Had Mark ever joined in the fun and retaliated, we would have been playing a game, but he is too kind and gentle and I am a scheming, evil terrorist.

I felt badly, not only because I had truly caused my husband much angst, but also because I had to grow up and knock it off. The olive branch I offered was a transparent shower curtain. No more sneaking. No more cold water or bouncy balls or sticky hands. It hangs in the master bathroom as a symbol of respect.

Awhile ago I was rounding a corner to put a pile of clothes away and Christian jumped out of a closet and scared my pants off. Why would he do such a horrible thing to his mother?!

He may have gotten me that time, but that kid had better watch out. The next time he walks into the dark garage, I'm pressing the alarm button on the van key!

I Can't...and You'll Never Guess Why!

"Timothy, eat your green beans."

"I can't. I don't have any hands," Timothy says, as he tries to hide them under the table in his lap.

It's his creative way of saying, "I don't want to eat my beans."

I am so much more sophisticated with my excuses. They sound more like this:

"I can't. I already have plans that day."

"I can't. My plate is full."

"I can't. I'm busy."

I think I'm telling the truth, but I wonder, do I look and sound as ridiculous as Timothy with his hands hiding under the table?

Next time I decline a request I'm just going to try, "I can't. I don't have any hands."

MOM!

The following is a true story. Neither the names nor the location have been changed to protect the nuts involved...

After an exasperating few hours of trying to bake and clean with two screaming boys wrapped around my knees, I did what any good mother short of finances to commit herself to the local psych ward would do: I sat my boys down at the kitchen table each with a glass of milk and a pile of graham crackers and let them have at it. I was desperate for a few moments of relative silence and the physical liberation to move freely and rapidly about my kitchen. Graham crackers for supper was my ticket to a moment of sanity...or so I thought.

While throwing a cake in the oven with my left hand and washing dirty dishes with my right, I was just beginning to feel the throbbing in my head subside.

"Mom! MOM!! Mommmmmmmmmmm! M-O-M!!! Mom! Mom! Mom! mom."

In my most loving mom voice I snarled, "WHAT! What do you want now, Timothy?!"

There was a pause before he answered, "I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to James."

Incredulously, I stared at him, our eyes locked for a moment before he casually returned to munching his graham crackers. I watched him a moment longer, but he just glanced quickly at me out of the corner of his eye, which almost made me laugh.

If a person wants to know what it feels like to experience the world's craziest amusement park ride, spend a day with a pre-schooler. Mine has the, um, we'll call it passion, stubbornness, wit, charm, and persistence to make 2 minutes feel like a wild roller coaster. This just proves that God knew what he was doing when he gave me Timothy and his siblings. The roller coaster is my favorite ride in the park!