Crazy Blessed: The sad man who lives in our basement

I would like to preface this post with: I am of (relatively) sound mind and body. Unfortunately, a summer cold was caught and passed around our house this week. Last night, the girls ran me ragged bringing tissues, glasses of water, and snuggles from room to room. When I finally did land on the first horizontal surface I came to (the love seat) around 5 o clock in the morning, I got all cozy, (again relative to a version of cozy), but I couldn't sleep because there was something knocking around in our basement. I thought it was almost certainly Muggles, our cat who is only active at nighttime. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep because I was woken up by Paisley putting her wet underwear in my face (this. is. motherhood.). She is potty trained, you know, except when she isn't. It's a rough stage. Anyway, I woke up and asked Paisley to take her wet clothes down to the basement and set them by the washer so I could put them in right during the first load of laundry for the day. Side note, there is nothing worse then finding a peed in set of jammies tucked in to the bottom of a laundry basket a few days later.

We have started making the kids be responsible for their own care. Washing their hair (with help), brushing their hair (with help), vacuuming up spills (with help), sweeping up after meals ( with help), taking their own laundry to the basement, folding it, and putting it away (with help). Sensing a theme? That 'with help' bit, that means mom eventually does it...but the point is to foster a sense of independence and responsibility.

Where was I? Oh yeah, peed underwear in my face immediately upon waking. So, the following is our approximate conversation:

"Mama, Here!" (wet underwear in my face)

"GRRRUUUUGHHHLLLL" ( This is me waking up. I don't know what it sounds like but this is how it feels)

"Uh, Oh! Did you have an accident in your bed?"

"No."

"Then why are your panties wet?"

"Because."

"Take them to the basement and put them in the basket by the washer."

" I can't. The mean man by the wall scares me."

"OOOOOOOOK....... what?"

" I can't go to the basement. The sad man lives down there and he scares me."

"Can you show Mama the sad man?"

She shakes her head no. She is obviously scared. I'm getting totally creeped out. Eventually, she agrees to show me the sad man who lives in our basement.

Okay, I really want to impress upon the reader of this blog that I'm (relatively) sane. I do NOT believe in ghosts, but in our dark cinder block basement, that I often make jokes about being like unto a third world prison, I'm a little more open minded. Also, I'm hyper rational. So, as I descend the stairs, I've also conjured in my head this scenario/urban legend where a homeless man breaks into our basement window and lives in the corner of our basement in a pile of our dirty laundry, unbeknownst to Dan and I, but befriends our children and makes them promise to bring him food and keep the secret. All of course while doing "tricky" things to them and making them feel scared. I have anxiety people, and an overactive imagination.

Where was I? Oh yeah, descending the stairs armed with a prayer, a little slugger baseball bat, and the tiny hand of a 3 year tucked in mine.

"Why do you have a bat Mama?"

"Mama is just putting it down in the basement. Paisley can you show me the sad man?" (totally creeped out.)

She points deep into the dark corner of the basement. I see a lurky shadow. I flick on the lights to find.....

The sad man is actually our porch decoration of Uncle Sam that we usually bring out in July, but this year kept tucked away because the brim of his hat is loose and I haven't gotten around to fixing it.

Relieved, I explain to Paisley that he is a statue, hitting him a few times for emphasis, that he is not real.

"He doesn't like when you hit him."

"PJ, he is not real!"

"Then why does he talk to me?"

AND... We are BACK. TO. CREEPY.

So I'm contemplating moving and burning Uncle Sam in a bonfire tonight, but Paisley starts laughing and we talk about how she was just using her imagination. But seriously, Uncle Sam might meet an unhappy end.