I love my kids, but sometimes they get on my nerves and I have to tell them to go away.
Like one morning when they were four, six, and ten. I was busy in the kitchen cutting up vegetables and their game of “let’s see how loud we can be” was deafening so I told them to go outside and play.
They trotted off to garage and its treasure trove of play equipment: numerous bouncy balls, electric ride-on jeeps, jump ropes, hula hoops, sidewalk chalk, bicycles, tricycles; you name it, it was in our garage.
Peace and quiet.
For about three minutes.
From the kitchen I heard the garage door whir open then close. Then open again. Then close. Then open.
I put my knife down and headed to the garage.
As I opened the door, I saw Andrew’s legs dangling from the ceiling. Alex’s finger was poised on the garage door control button, ready to send Andrew back to safety. Maddie Grace was in the “spectator’s box,” eyes gleaming and both hands covering the exuberant grin on her face, a look that told me she was next in line.
Alex caught my gaze and froze.
Andrew, clutching the garage door handle and still dangling from the ceiling with his back was towards me, urged “Do it again, Alex! Do it again!” He was downright giddy.
“The garage door carnival ride is officially shut down, Andrew.”
Silence. Then the slow whir of the garage door delivering Andrew to the ground.
It was a good thing I left the knife in the kitchen.