…nowhere to be seen at first. I paused in the entryway, my heart hammering against my ribs. The house was dead silent. Not a squeak, not a giggle, not the familiar sound of a plastic dinosaur being launched against the drywall. The living room wasn’t just clean; it was meticulously, unnervingly organized.
Then, I heard a hushed, rhythmic chanting coming from the twins’ bedroom.
I tiptoed down the hall, holding my breath, and peered through the crack in the door. There was our nineteen-year-old babysitter, Chloe. She was wearing a neon terrycloth sweatband around her head, two streaks of green washable marker painted across her cheeks like camouflage, and she was holding a glowing flashlight under her chin like a drill sergeant telling a ghost story.
My wild, untamable six-year-old boys were in their beds, rigid as boards, eyes wide with absolute awe.
“And so, the Grand Master of the Dream Realm decrees,” Chloe whispered dramatically, pacing between their beds. “Only the initiates who have successfully completed the Trial of the Tidy Toys and mastered the Art of the Still Body shall be granted the ancient power of tomorrow’s energy. Are you prepared to enter the hibernation chamber?”
“Yes, Master Chloe,” my sons whispered back in eerie, perfect unison. It was nothing short of a miracle.
“Then commence the heavy breathing of the sleeping dragon,” she instructed, her voice dropping an octave. “Deep inhale through the snout. Slow exhale through the fire-glands. Prove to me you are worthy.”
The boys immediately squeezed their eyes shut and began taking deep, exaggerated breaths. Chloe stood there, clicking a literal stopwatch. Within three minutes, the forced “dragon breathing” seamlessly transitioned into actual, rhythmic snoring. They were out cold.
Chloe quietly clicked off the flashlight, wiped the green marker off her face with a baby wipe, and began to tiptoe out of the room. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw me standing in the shadowed hallway.
“Oh! Mrs. Henderson! You’re home early,” she gasped, clutching her chest.
“Chloe,” I said, staring at her in absolute disbelief. “What… what did I just watch?”
She blushed furiously, slipping the sweatband off her head and twisting it in her hands. “Oh, um. I’m a theater education major? I realized pretty quickly on day one that Leo and Max have way too much imagination and adrenaline for a normal routine. So, we play ‘Secret Ninja Academy.’ Part one is the stealth mission, where they have to silently speed-clean the living room to earn their pajama belts. Part two is meditation training to slow their heart rates so the ‘enemy’ can’t hear them.” She offered a sheepish smile. “It works like a charm.”
I thought about my mother’s gummy conspiracy theory. I thought about the hundreds of dollars my husband and I had wasted on lavender sleep sprays, melatonin, and expensive white noise machines over the years.
“Chloe,” I said, reaching into my purse with trembling hands. “I am doubling your hourly rate. And I need to know your thoughts on signing an exclusive, iron-clad, ten-year contract.”
