One Saturday in recent history, sister B asked if she could have a friend over for dinner.
A boy-type friend.
“Yes, but you’ll stay down stairs,” I admonished her.
“What if I keep the door open to my room?”
“No. You stay down stairs.”
“All right…” she said, reluctantly.
And they did, staying down stairs to watch a movie and to keep Michael entertained. Michael glommed on to this boy like a Remora on a shark’s belly, intrigued with this person who was clearly not a sister, but wasn’t a little boy like himself either. But this young man was okay with it.
Sister B was not as okay with it.
Before dinner time came, I had to run out to the store briefly. I let my wife know about it, and called out the general caution: “Be good! I’ll be right back!”
Not ten seconds after I shut the door, sister B began implementing a plan to get them out of Michael’s reach. She went upstairs by herself, waited until Michael noticed her missing, and then she went downstairs and asked her friend to go up.
My wife, having a keen sense of a three card Monty game going on, perked up her ears and paid close attention to the unfolding scheme.
Sister B then asked sister S to go upstairs, while she herself distracted Michael with one of his favorite movies. Then she went halfway upstairs and asked sister S to come down and make sure Michael was watching his movie, or she’d turn it off.
Sister B had successfully gotten herself and her friend upstairs in her room, leaving the door open.
Michael’s Mommy has more vision than that, and can see right through wool even if it has been pulled down over her eyes.
So with the promise of chocolate as a reward, she sent Michael upstairs to keep sister B and her friend occupied until Daddy came home.
When I finally did arrive home, I saw sister S watching the movie, my wife in the kitchen with a devilish smile on her face, and no trace of Michael, sister S or her friend.
“Where are they?”
“Upstairs,” my wife said, smiling.
“Upstairs? But I told her-”
“It’s okay. Michael’s up there too,” she said.
I went upstairs to check, and found Michael pacing the floor of sister B’s bedroom, stalking back and forth brandishing a foam sword.
Sister B was hiding under one bed, and her friend was hiding under the other. I could just see the boy’s face, who mouthed:
“Help me!”
Sister B replies:
“I can’t move!”
I sent Michael downstairs, and freed the captives.
“Like I said, you need to stay downstairs,” I told them.
No more problems with them the rest of the night.
Oddly, this particular boy has not made a return visit.
