We just got home from MOPS. Jordan went outside to play while I made lunch (Mark just finished his play set in time for this wonderful pre-Spring weather).
I had to go the to bathroom, bad. Bad as in I'd been holding it for an hour already.
Mid-pee, I hear screaming. Blood-curdling screaming.
Reese was with me in the bathroom, as always, so I knew it was Jordan outside.
I panic. You know you can't stop going pee once you start, but my son, in my head, is being attacked or kidnapped or seriously injured.
I yank my pants up, the underwear we're kind of up.
I run for the backdoor which is blocked by a baby gate and a huge fan (Mark stained the wood on the back stairs last night, so we're trying to clear the fumes out).
I hurdle both objects with as much ease as a waddling penguin.
I finally get out side, but can't see Jordan. I hear the screams still.
He then bursts out of this play house, totally hysterical.
"Mommy, mommy," he sobs.
"What, What, What?!?!!?" I demand, scream, beg.
He finally chokes out that there was a cat on the shelf in his play house, which he thought was a monster.
As he's telling me this, I feel drips running down my leg.
A cat. Dang cat. I hate cats.
I'm putting screens on the windows of the play house tonight.
And washing my jeans.