The Lock Out

Post-morning run, Whistlestop Road wandering, and neighbor's tree climbing, Heath thought it would be hilarious to run into the house, lock all the doors, and stand at the front window snickering, while I held Stella and tried to look like I had no idea what he had done, and really tried to look like I wasn't going to completely blow a fuse. After five minutes, I gave up on the non-reactive reaction and tried some old fashioned hollering, door banging, and Open this door now with my best low-toned, jaw clenched, brow scowled mom voice. It worked.

Five minutes later, I was ready to tackle our mountain gear laundry. (In a smart moment of Heath clothing foresight, I packed six outfits for Heath for our overnight trip. He returned home in some underwear and a very dirty pajama shirt. Wallowing in mud, swimming in cricks, Papa's mountain tree tramping, and lounging on some old dogs made for multiple wardrobe changes.) I tossed the wet towels into the dryer, turned it on, and was met with a screeching, sawing, rumbling, shaking machine.

What's that noise? Heath asked, racing into the room with his tool box.

Good question. Too bad Heath couldn't fix it. Neither could Mark. We have someone coming Monday afternoon between 1 and 5. I don't have enough clothes for Heath to make it until Monday. Maybe I can let him beat his clothes on some rocks to clean them.