Grasshopper has just recently entered the portion of three-year-old imaginative play which includes things that are scary. There may be a bad wolf lurking in his closet or a mean dinosaur under his bed. There might be a tiny, microscopic buggy stalking him at any moment. The possibilities are endless.
This morning, I was in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher when he raced in, eyes bright, cheeks flushed and announced breathlessly, "Mama, there something in my drawer!"
"Well, I'm busy right now buddy, why don't you tell it to go away?"
"No Mama, you have to come help me! Pleeeeaase, Mama?"
I sighed as I made my way to Grasshopper's bedroom, expecting to open whichever drawer it is that he has decided contains something scary, show him that there isn't anything there, and then tell him why I have to return to the kitchen instead of playing trains, which I imagine is his true reason for luring me to his room.
"It in my train drawer." He says, pointing to the left-most drawer under his train table, confirming my suspicion that my real reason for being in his room has nothing to do with scary critters and everything to do with wanting a train playmate.
I squat on the floor and slide open the left-most drawer. Which feels heavier than usual. When I get it open about 8 inches a creature leaps out of the drawer towards my face.
I scream like a banshee, falling backwards onto Percy, the much-beloved green Thomas engine and bruising my backside thoroughly. I crab-walk backwards in a panic until I realize that the creature is my damn Persian cat, Pasha.
She sits and begins licking her paw in a most-relaxed manner and Grasshopper collapses on the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter.
"It just Pashy, Mama!" He chortles, "It just Pashy!"
Yep. My boy and my cat. They're out to get me.