or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down

After John and I put the boys to bed last night, we holed up in the den to watch TV, as we are wont to do after a full day. The den is one of the most amazing rooms in our house. For one, it's nearly 700 square feet, which makes it large enough to accommodate exercise equipment and a place for John to work on his bikes, as well as give us ample room for a sofa, two armchairs, and a large-screen TV. Two, its location is somewhat unique—essentially, the room is the basement of our three-car attached garage.

So, we were sitting in the den, minding our own business (probably watching a crime drama), when we heard banging and thumping. Initially I thought that one of the boys was up—Simon, in particular, is prone to insomnia, and just earlier this week sleepwalked—so I waited to hear the toilet flush or the pitter-patter of little feet as they rounded the corner into the den. Nothing. More banging and thumping, which now sounded insistent and close. John and I pried ourselves off the couch to investigate.

The noise became louder as we neared the entry door that separates the house and garage. My first thought was that we had an animal—a very large animal from the sounds of it—in the garage. John peered through the window in the door and could see, at the top of the garage stairway, the steel entry door (that leads from the outside into the garage) bowing and flexing like something out of Videodrome. Clearly someone was trying to break into the garage.

John yelled for the intruder to get away, then pulled on shoes and coat to investigate while I called the police. The entire time John was outside, I wished that he had a baseball bat or somesuch so he could defend himself if attacked. I realize that the intruder was probably a kid, most likely looking for a car stereo to steal. I whispered to myself, Please, take everything in our garage.

At least that's what I tell myself because, heaven forbid, he should be a serial killer, playing into my well-developed neurosis. Living with mid-sized children offers many opportunities for someone to enter our house because they never close or lock the doors. And it drives me crazy!!*

On the occasion that someone was actually trying to break into our house, however, I had locked the door. Earlier that day I had been thinking that it was about time I got into the habit of locking the door. And, of course, now I'll never leave it unlocked—even when we're at home.

John didn't see anyone outside. The police drove through our alley to serve as a warning.

And by the light of morning, on the door's exterior, the area around the lock is clearly damaged, while on the interior, the door is bowed around the lock. The near-intruder was very determined, though I'm glad to say that he was unsuccessful.


I'm still a little creeped out, especially as it feeds into my very active imagination, but I'm definitely feeling lucky that we were awake and scared off the near-intruder before s/he (equal opportunity) got into our garage or house.

*Mea culpa—I rarely lock the entry door between the garage and house because I'm always schlepping in groceries or piles of library books, and I will be the first to admit that it's easier to open the unlocked door than it is to set everything down and fumble for the key.