When I went into premature labor with my twins, I called Phil instead of my doctor. Phil told me to call the doctor, but I wasn’t sure what was happening and hated the idea of being that crazy annoying patient. I didn’t want to bother him. Tonight I’m home sick, but I encouraged Phil to go out, get some air, have some adult conversation. And could he take the kids to the Kids Club while he’s at it? So win, win. I wanted to spend the night blowing my nose, eating Thanksgiving leftovers, and compiling a December scrapbook. All was going along swimmingly until I ran out of tissues. I then had to pause the television. It was quiet. That’s when it happened. I began to hear noises.
These weren’t creaking sounds or howling winds. They were steps, someone walking on my back porch. I’d stopped to listen. My heart raced. I grabbed the phone only to realize, I don’t know Phil’s phone number–my main problem with speed dial, mind you. Oooh, I hear the noises now, too. It sounds like someone is now crawling under my house, ironically deciding where to place a coffee table, as if someone is moving furniture, but in a distant, dragging, way. And then it stops. Holy crap, how do I not know his phone number?! I shoot up and dart to the center of the house with the house phone. I have to run back to the sofa for my cell phone to look up Phil’s number. “So, having fun? Still out?”
“Oh, oh nothing. I’m sure I’m just crazy. I kinda hear noises. Maybe someone’s just stealing our outdoor living room set. Don’t worry. I turned on every light in the house.”
I wonder if not calling 911 is at all like not calling your OBGYN thinking you might or might not be in labor. I guess it would only count if someone was in fact on my back porch or rearranging my dining room furniture. As it is, it sounds like they’re just playing marbles (how does one play marbles, by the way?). This house feels a lot safer with a man and two more fraidy cat babies in it. I’m just thankful our house has an alarm system–one more person I can always freak out to before making any 911 calls. Maybe it’s just a ghost.
Update: Furniture is all there, and I’m alive. Psycho, but alive.