It wasn’t a holiday we celebrated, exactly. After all, life here was a succession of their tricks and my treats. It was just how we rolled on The Three.
With four sons, the trick factor was through the roof. Oddly, this seemed to bring a concurrent dip in the treat index, a curious phenomenon that Mr. Schrock’s children would have done well to note. Besides, with all that action, who needed a day of sanctioned chicanery and the eating of sugar ‘til their teeth fell out and my own head exploded? Not me, and that was a fact.
It was Kid Kaboom, the blue-jeaned bottle rocket, who was responsible for much of the mayhem. I hadn’t forgotten the vinegar ice cubes he’d gifted me with, completely ruining the Diet Coke I’d called for one day.
And who could forget the alarm clock trick he and his brothers had engineered one fateful night? Their dad and I had gone away for the evening, leaving the inmates to run the asylum. My maternal radar had pinged a warning when we returned. There was treachery afoot. I could feel it. could smell it. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
At 3:45 a.m., we found out what it was. There we were, slumbering peacefully in our PJs when suddenly an unearthly racket commenced. A loud beeping shattered the night. What in the…?
We jolted upright, hearts thundering, eyes straining for the dump truck that was backing up, ready to crush us in our bed. As one, we lurched toward the source of the sound, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision somewhere at the foot of the bed, leaving me with a scrape on my grill and a ding on my quarter panel. Where was it coming from?