For anyone who read my book, you’ll understand the irony of what I’m about to tell you. For those that haven’t, you should know a few basic things. I grew up in a family where hiding behind doors and jumping out and yelling boo at your siblings/parents was a sport. We were good at it, and as long as you weren’t on the scared end of the process, it was good fun.
Truthfully, I would never try out “boo” forays on a little kid. I mean, I don’t have a lot of practical joke standards, but I do know that any little two year old who gets super angry with me for not responding quickly enough when she hands me her Tinkerbell phone (see pictures above) probably won’t take to being spooked very well. Even though it would be hilarious, and her sense of humor is good, it’s probably not good enough to handle the concept of “boo.”
Or, at least that’s what I thought.
The other morning we were all getting ready for church. Jane usually hangs out with me in the bathroom, pulling every bobby pin and rubber band out of the drawers, getting in and out of the bathtub, hanging on me… generally wreaking havoc as I do my best to get ready as quickly as possible. But on that particular morning I was putting on my mascara and suddenly realized everything was quiet. Too quiet.
I peered around the corner into the hallway. No Jane.
I checked her bedroom down the hall. No Jane.
I walked the entire upper floor and then downstairs. No. Jane.
I started the panic a little bit, running from room to room, and finally into my dressing room.
“Jane! Come here to me right now!” I called, crouching down to look under the desk beside my closet.
And that’s when she pounced.
Out of my dark closet, behind the lower clothes rack, she sprung towards me, part cat, part demented child.
“Hahahahaha,” she cackled in that high pitched voice that can only belong to toddler girls and grown men sucking helium.
I fell backwards, stunned, because let’s just face it. Small children crouching in the dark, plotting, is the stuff horror movies are made of.
“What, in, the,” I sputtered, trying to pick myself up off the floor.
Her little face spread into a huge grin, and she wrapped her arms around my neck in glee, giggling.
And that’s when it hit me.
She’s inherited the boo gene.
And she got me good.
And she knew it.
“You scared mommy,” I tried to shame her, but I couldn’t stifle my own laughter.
“I scare you,” she squealed and jumped back into the closet to reenact the scene again.
A part of me is proud. But I won’t lie, a part of me is a little worried. She came up with this concept all on her own, and executed it with scaring precision.
My girl is an untaught boo prodigy.