I awoke last night to one of the sounds I most dread hearing in the wee hours.
Chirp! Chirrrrp! Chirrrrup!
I tossed. I turned.
When Hubs stopped snoring, I knew he had heard it too.
“Are you awake?” I asked.
“How could I sleep through this?”
We lay in silence for a minute.
Then — “I’m going to find it,” Hubs declared.
He stepped out of bed. I heard something tumble and a muttered oath from my spouse as he tried to catch himself.
Which is when I remembered that the E-man had just built a three-story Lincoln Logs hotel next to Hubs’ side of the bed.
Hubs stumbled around the room, tripping over a Lego cabin along the way. The chirping stopped.
For five minutes.
I eventually dozed off into dreamland, where crickets played an integral role in my unconscious imaginings.
I awoke to more crashing and what appeared to be a little spotlight on the wall in front of me.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked the man lumbering across the room.
“I’m going to find it and I’m going to kill it!” he replied, swinging a teensy flashlight in my direction.
Is that a flyswatter in his other hand?
Hubs finally determined that the cricket was underneath the antique hall tree.
Why, you might reasonably ask, is there a hall tree in our bedroom? The answer is rather convoluted, but it involves Hubs’ inability to part with the many items his family has given him whenever we visit. Let’s just say the last time he visited an aunt, he came home with a buffet.
Hubs was unsuccessful in his quest to assassinate the cricket. So we both dozed fitfully until morning.
And then I used the incident to support my longtime request that we sell the hall tree.