My story last week involved my fourteen year old son, a flashlight, a spooky ghost story and a very dark night. That night will live in infamy for all of us. But my son waited patiently for the right time and perfect situation and eventually got his revenge for his mother's prank.
We'd been doing yard work one summer day and I was exhausted. The sun had just set, the tools were clean and my weary bones were ready for the jet tub. I couldn't wait to smell the sweet fragrance of lilac bubble bath, taste the faint hint of chocolate in a generous glass of wine and feel the hot jets of water soothing my aching muscles. With one last simple chore to do, I went into the garage to close the door and stash the gardening tools. They belong on the bottom shelf of the cabinet by the sink, so I squatted down to put them away. I must admit I did a little groaning on the way down and was grateful for the countertop to hang onto when it came time to haul myself back up. I slipped my trowel into its spot and from behind me I heard a deep, gravely grunt. Then another. I froze. Maybe, just maybe, if I stayed still enough they wouldn't hear me or see me and go away. Oh please, PLEASE go away. Or perhaps I was hearing things? I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed they couldn't hear the pounding of my heart. I certainly could and I was sure the entire west coast could. Another grunt, this time louder and meaner and much CLOSER. Decision time. Run as fast as I can (if I can get up) up the four stairs to the door to the house, or stay here and be eaten alive by what--I could only imagine. Now they're scratching. Holy crap! By this time the creatures in my garage had grown in my mind to fanged, rabid werewolves and they were preparing to attack! Of this I was most certain.
Adrenaline squirted into my veins. I stood up. Garden tools clanged to the floor and I flew across the garage. Without missing a beat, I took the stairs two at a time and shoved the door behind me. Safe. Then I heard it. Quiet. No more snuffling. No more grunting. No more scratching. What I heard was the uncontrollable laughter of a teenager.
When I finally got the nerve to open the door, there he was just outside the open window in all his glory, fighting the tears that had smeared into muddy tracks down his cheeks. When I asked if it was him that had made those horrible noises, he was laughing much too hard to speak. The brat.
Every once in awhile during quiet moments together, he will do his perfect imitation of a grunting javelina (or rabid werewolf) and we still find it quite amusing even though many sunsets have passed. He never let on he was going to get me back for my shenanigans, but just like the devious characters on Revenge, my son waited patiently for the perfect moment to strike. Oh, the dark side of a devious mind. Surely he gets that from his father.
I give my son full credit for the not-so-cute white "skunk" stripe I have in my hair now. I say I've earned every one of the little devils. But if I'm to be honest with myself, it's the telltale mark of revenge. Can't say I didn't deserve it.
Have you ever pulled a prank that has come back to bite you? Leave your story in the comments. I'd love to hear I'm not the only goofy mom or dad out there.
Until next time--beware of the pranks you play, because what goes around, comes around. Eventually.
Happy Reading, Happy Writing,