Overactive Imagination: I Think NOT!

I'm mobilizing my crew so that we (I) can head off to "cheerleading" practice. No, you did not read that wrong, and yes, the hamster has passed out on the wheel (yet you knew that, didn't you?). "Cheerleading" is synonymous, in my book, for aerobics (we actually clap when we're finished, so why the hell not?), and for a woman unable to coordinate leg and arm movements, it often proves to be a real challenge. However, I dreamt of being a cheerleader (or flag spinner, or a baton twirler, or a ballerina) for many, many years, and in some small way, this fulfills the need.

Anyhoo . . .

that's not why I'm writing this post. I'm writing this post to give you even further evidence of my unsteady clutch on sanity. Y'see, there's this train upstairs, a little remote control "Thomas the Tank Engine" toy, that is currently driving itself (YES, ITSELF) around on my hardwood floors. The sound of its little wheels just spinning and scraping pine rendered M and me frozen amidst an aggressive game of Bingo this afternoon; chip poised, midair, and we heard it . . . chug, chug, chugging along. Revving. Prowling.

"What's that?" M asked.

"I think it's The Train," I said. (Notice use of caps.)

We climbed up the stairs to the kitchen, where the train was speeding circles around the dogs.

"Who's driving it?" M whispered. I eyed the remote control, sitting, untouched, on the counter.

"Maybe it's a ghost?" I encouraged.

His face lit up, "Yessssss," he breathed, "A ghost."

When the train "ran out of gas" temporarily a bit later (after a ten minute break, it took off again), M suggested that perhaps the little ghost boy who had been playing with it was now eating an invisible snack of carrots (love how the spirit has to make healthy choices; try giving M carrots for a snack).

But, here's the kicker. Went upstairs (cautiously, I might add, pressed against walls) to retrieve J from his nap. Opened the door and the child's first words to me. "Hi, Mom. Ghost!"

Arrgggghhhh.

I really hadn't planned on going to the gym this afternoon, but I think it's a better place for all of us. At least until the Ghost Busters arrive.

P.S. Last October, had a similar situation with the doorbell chiming constantly--a grand "ding dong ding donnnnng, ding dong ding donnnnng." Called my husband at work, sobbing. Told me to remove batteries. Ripped them out of the speaker, relaxed, then had breakdown when it started again. Called my husband at work again, screaming and bawling and collapsed in a corner by the front door (think Julia Roberts in "Sleeping With the Enemy": the scene where the husband finds her). Turns out that the outside button has batteries, too. Tore them out. Doorbell stopped. I sometimes overreact.

P.P.S. This is an old house, built in 1910. I have waken up, I shit you not, at least ten times in the past six months to the sound of a baby crying, yet when I poke my husband to go check on the kids (yes, you read that right), everyone is fast asleep. SPOOOOOOOKYYYYYYYY!