Pardon me for stating the obvious, but haunted houses are mighty awful scary.
I was reminded of this fact during our romantic weekend away from the kids. We visited Niagara Falls, where there are more than a few haunted houses. Since he knew where we were going, and had been there himself before, our oldest son dared me to go into one while we were gone--no doubt believing there was NO WAY I would.
In an attempt to show off my new found brave spirit, I took the dare. The place was appropriately called "Screamers," and I'm still praising the Lord that my bladder hadn't been too full upon entry. As we traveled through the pitch black darkness, "monsters" creeped, jumped, and crawled all around us. I've never been so scared, or screamed so loudly, in all my life.
Well, except for when I gave birth, but that's a subject for another blog.
My boy got a call the moment I'd survived the ordeal, and had finished using the rest room, just so I could brag. It was actually the second call I'd made to a son that day, and we'd end up calling all of them before the end of that very same hour.
It's funny. When we were alone, the communication was productive and the romance was optimal. As much as we were enjoying ourselves, though, there was still something missing.
When we got home, and all the kids were in the kitchen, I started making eggs. Three kids, one girlfriend, and Jeff and I all vied for one another's attention, talking at once and running into each other in the small area. Above all the hubbub, that's when it hit me. We'd loved the vacation, but we'd missed our special family chaos.
Now THAT's scary.