I am mildly obsessed with doors; I am always on the lookout for doors with character–doors with soul. I like to decorate with doors, or even with photos of doors. I have photographed doors in Paris, London, Amsterdam, and a smattering of other equally interesting (though less-known) locations.
Probably my interest in doors dates back to when we were remodeling our house, and I would go on long family drives with my parents and sister–we were on the quest for the perfect door to copycat.
Anyway, I like doors a lot, and I am the type of person who always feels compelled to answer the door when someone knocks (unlike my mother-in-law, who ignores it anytime she doesn’t feel like dealing with people). I just thought it was normal to do so–plus, it bothers me when I don’t know who’s trying to get in contact with me. But I’m kind of starting to reconsider my previous notions that just because there’s a knock at the door, I must answer like some sort of glassy-eyed zombie. Maybe I don’t have to answer…maybe it’s better if I don’t, because…
…people have stopped asking me to babysit. Instead, when they fancy some “mommy time,” they’re just sending their kids over to my house unannounced.
Today, two random neighbor girls (whose parents I have never even spoken to, by the way,) stopped by my house just as I was sitting down to a nice turkey sandwich (complete with Jarlsberg cheese, butter lettuce, roma tomatoes, and fresh mustard) and a glass of skim milk.
I was perturbed. I knew one of the girls a little bit, because she’d been in Poor Kyle’s primary class last year. But I’d never met her little friend, and I was quite shocked to see them at my front door.
In fact, when I went to answer the knock at the door, I saw it was these strange little girls and said, “Hi…umm…what do you want? Why are you here?”
They just stood there, looking at me.
I stood there, looking right back at them. Finally I could stand the awkward silence no more (because I so despise awkward silences), and, though my mind was screaming, “Shut the door! Shut the door! Shut the door!,” all I said was, “Did you want to come in?”
They needed no further invitation. Like a flash, they were in my house, shoes discarded at the door, exploring our creepy basement (where I secretly hoped a boogey man really would pop out and scare them, so they wouldn’t think our house was “fun” anymore). Anyway, all kids like Poor Kyle better than me, and since he wasn’t home, the girls lost interest fairly quickly and left me to my sandwich.
But it makes me wonder about their parents. I know I live in Mayberry and all…but haven’t these people ever seen American Beauty? (Okay, probably not, since it’s rated “R” and the population here is predominantly Mormon [and, okay, I haven’t seen it either, but I know what it’s about…]) The whole point is that bad things can happen even in seemingly perfect environments. I could be a child molester. I could be a drug dealer. I could harbor fugitives in my (exceedingly) creepy basement. The adults in question have never even spoken to me, yet they’re trusting their precious children in my care? Trusting me in my carelessness would be more like it. Because I don’t care about these strange and random neighbor kids…not really…
So what are these parents thinking?