That time I stabbed my shower curtain with a sword


Recently, I read about a break-in on my town’s Mom’s Facebook group (I should really unfollow that group; between all the impassioned responses about break-ins and/or baby wearing, it’s very anxiety-producing for me). The mom surprised the intruder — she saw him run out of the house in broad daylight when she returned home from an errand —and it was sad and scary and we all felt a little bit violated.  But her most of all. Because she was actually violated and just didn’t read about it.

That story circulated around my head and kept sticking around the corners of my brain. Since I was home every day with the baby on maternity leave and doing not much of anything, it was hard to shake it away.

I blame this on how I came to run a sword through my shower curtain.

Here’s how it happened: The other day, I was sitting on the edge of the tub with the baby while talking to Sam who was using the potty before school. (For those of you with 4-year-olds, you know you need to sit down to talk during this activity as it isn’t going to be a short conversation.)

When the baby and I got back from day are drop off, I went upstairs and heard an unfamiliar cell phone ding (I later learned it came from my husband’s iPad under the bed). However! It sounded like it came from the bathroom. So I poked my head in there and saw that the shower curtain was completely shut.

Reader, if you saw my housekeeping skills, you would know closing shower curtains behind me is not something that I necessarily do out of habit. My body froze out of pure, unadulterated fear as I became convinced that there was a man hiding in my bathtub. Who was being very quiet. And who was robbing me but then heard me come home so hid in the shower and now he was just killing time before murdering me by texting his buddy. Probably about how he was going to murder me and/or about the accumulation of soap scum in my bathtub he’s noticed while standing there.

Here is the timeline of what went through my head / transpired:


9:05 a.m.: I HAVE TO CALL 911!!!!!!

9:06 a.m.: [Now thinking rationally; not all-caps screaming] No, don’t call the cops. That is silly. Is there a neighbor I could call?

9:06 a.m.: No, no neighbors. Well, I do have a neighbor who would come over but I like her too much to have her murdered alongside me. I will have to go at this alone.

9:07 a.m.: [Still standing, frozen, looking at the closed shower curtain while holding the baby.] Well, if he was going to murder me, he probably would have done it by now.

9:08 a.m.: [Baby starts fussing as it’s her nap time. And who is probably wondering why we’re standing, looking at a shower curtain.] Shit. It’s nap time.

9:08 a.m.: If we both nap while I think a robber could possibly be behind a shower curtain, is that bad?

9:08 a.m.: That’s bad.

9:09 a.m.: Maybe I should take the baby downstairs to nap on the couch with me, as then I’ll be closer to the front door and can make a quicker getaway with the baby in case he comes downstairs.

9:09 a.m.:  Ugh. I love napping so much.

9:09 a.m.: Take the baby downstairs.

9:10 a.m.: Maybe I should text my husband so he knows how I died?

9:11 a.m.: Text husband: “I think there is someone in our shower.”

9:12 a.m.: He quickly responds. “Doubtful. But maybe run the sword through the shower curtain just in case?”

9:12 a.m.: Text back: “GOOD CALL.” Think about how much I love my husband.

9:13 a.m.: Put the baby in her car seat, take her outside so that if I run a sword through the shower curtain and then get in a struggle with the now-stabbed, texting intruder, she will be safe outside and hopefully, after a while, my non-murdered neighbor will walk by at a certain point and see her. And then call the cops.

9:14 a.m.: But what if I put the baby outside, I’m then murdered, and then she is kidnapped by someone driving by? HOW WILL THE COPS FIGURE THAT ONE OUT?

9:14 a.m.: Ugh. Parenting.

9:15 a.m.: Risk it. Put the baby on the front step. Run upstairs. Stab shower curtain with sword. I may have screamed, “AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!” while doing so.

9:15 a.m.:  NO ONE THERE. Relief floods my body like a well-aimed epidural.

9:15 a.m.: Run downstairs, see baby hasn’t been kidnapped from the front stoop, celebrate my little victory.

9:16 a.m.: Take a nap.

10:15 p.m.: Husband notices hole in shower curtain.

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