Saved by an Angel

Let's turn back the hands of time once again. Come along with me as I take you back to our third story apartment at Atlantic Court where we were happily living with a ghost named Honey. Life couldn't have been much better than it was back then. I should've known things were too good. Fate stepped in to remind me of what is really important.

Tuesday, March 4, 1997 started like any other day. The sun rose in the east, the sounds of birds floated through the open windows, and hubby went off to work at, "Holy cow are you kidding? It's way too freakin' early in the morning!" as he always did. Serena woke up, my son Brent woke up, and I was forced to pry my eyes open as their chatter carried to me from the bedroom.

I groaned as I started to swing my legs over the edge of my sleeping surface, only to remember, too late, that surface was a futon. As my bony knees thunked against the hard floor, I grunted and silently said, "Owie." Sighing heavily, I wondered if I would ever remember this one teeny fact so I could begin my day without more bruises. At that moment I recalled why I woke up groaning. Futons are murder on the back.

I stumbled to the bathroom for my morning ablutions. Serena and Brent didn't bother to say anything to mommy, they knew better. I wouldn't have yelled at them or hurt them, just grunt and snarl a bit. Saying I'm not a morning person is putting it mildly.

I fed my wee piglets their breakfast, then settled myself in the living room on my couch with notebook and pen in hand to write. Lunchtime came and went with no upset or fighting. Every parent out there knows the feeling you get when your kids are getting along, it makes you uneasy. There's the breath holding suspense of waiting for the other shoe to drop, and they have the fight to end all fights. They had been getting along too good today.

I sat on the couch with feet curled under me, plundering my brilliant mind for the golden nuggets it holds. The next New York Times Bestseller flowing from the end of my WalMart pen. Ok, so I was writing poetry and other stuff while thinking about writing a book. That sounded good though didn't it?

Then, there it came, the sound of high pitched squealing as the fight began. I sighed and plunked my two tons of paper beside me. I was halfway to the bedroom when the first "Moooommmyyy!" rang out.

It took me only a minute to size up the situation. I stepped into the doorway and boomed, "Alright you two! Brent, stop it, let go right now! Boy, you want me to tan your hide? Let that toy go, Serena had it first."

He gave a little shove as he let the toy go. His bottom lip poked out so far I feared he might smother himself accidently if he didn't put it back soon. I informed him Serena had the toy first, if he wanted to play with it he could wait till she was done. He knew in approximately 0.0005 seconds it would be laying on the floor. My job as enforcer done, I went back to the living room to find peace with my words. I had just gotten comfortable when I heard a loud tick, tick, tick sound and some clattering.

I thought to myself, oh man, they're quiet about the bickering now. I knew the ticking sound was the table top fan, the kind that swings back and forth. It had obviously gotten knocked off the dresser.

I put my stuff down on the couch again and walked toward the bedroom. Just as I neared the door, but before I could see inside the room, Brent stepped out. He had this very odd look on his face. It didn't register in my brain just how odd that look was. Two more steps brought me into the doorway of the bedroom. I saw the fan laying on a pile of toys tick, tick, ticking away, but something was missing. I couldn't put my finger on it. What was wrong with this picture?

To Be Continued....