Booby Traps

This is my front door:

And this is the reason there's a bench in front of it:

Last night I tucked him into bed with prayers, stories, and kisses. It was a typical night with the typical "I love you, I love you too" routine.

Ten minutes later my mom-ears picked up on some suspicious movement. I quietly snuck up to his room and opened his door. I found him fully dressed (including socks, shoes, and jacket) with his backpack on his shoulders looking like someone going somewhere.

"What are you doing?" I queried.

"I don't live here anymore!" was the reply. (Seriously?) 

After assuring him that he does, in fact, still live here (and that he is loved, to boot) I helped him change back into PJ's and tucked him into bed. Again.

Shaking my head, I walked back downstairs as my phone started to ring. I answered it and began telling Amy what had just occurred.

Minutes later I heard the familiar beep-beep-beep of the front door lock being activated. I rushed to the door, pulled it open, and found the little nightmare standing on the front steps, fully dressed (again), with flashlight in hand.

I quickly sent him back up to his room. He grudgingly obeyed (and made sure to slam his door to let me know how much I was overreacting). For a few minutes I parked myself on the stairs thinking I'd deter him from any further foolishness. But...I couldn't stay there forever. What if he woke up in the middle of the night and decided to try it again?

Thus...the bench. Cunningly littered with toys that would potentially alert us if he tried to move it.

And that's what I've been reduced to. Trapping my child in our nice warm house instead of letting him wander willy-nilly through the neighborhood...in the freezing weather...in the middle of the night.

For my over-protective mothering I was treated to the stink eye bright and early this morning. All because I "put that black thing in front of the door".

Shame on me.