I groggily reach for the night stand, knocking over books, tissue box, water bottle, as I scavenge for the phone. Squint to try and see the clock sans glasses: 5:02 a.m.
"Hello?" It comes out more like a grunt than a word.
"Um.... Rebecca? It's Tim, the doorman, from downstairs? Well... I thought you should know your boys are out..."
Yep. That's right. 5 a.m. They were out for a morning stroll. Or rather, running up and down the halls of our apartment building, screaming at the top of their lungs. I think they were pretending to be super heroes. But it might have been airplanes. The difference between Captain Pickles and a Jet Plane is murky at best, let alone at 5 a.m.
And how did they get there? Remarkable, really. A true testament to perseverance, ingenuity, and collusion. They moved a chair from the dining room table to get over the gate. Then they moved a stool from the kitchen to the front door. Then they clamored up and unlocked TWO deadbolts AND the safety latch.
That afternoon hubby bought another lock for their door. It's been two days, and, so far, so good. I'm not delusional though. Not in the slightest. I give it a week, tops.
And to all of our neighbors on the 16th floor: I am truly, truly, truly sorry.