I was an avid reader as a kid – anything and everything I could get my hands on, I read. Thousands of books have crossed these eyes, but some “stuck”. They haven’t stuck necessarily because they were my favorite, but because their stories seem to have come to life in my adulthood. None has rung more true than The Borrowers.
I’m convinced. They live in my home, prowl room to room as I sleep, and mess up all of my best laid plans for a smooth morning departure.
Socks? Fuggedaboudit. There has not been a matched pair of socks in my house since 1997. Why the Borrowers can’t borrow in pairs is beyond me, but as they say, variety is the spice of life and the bane of my laundry doing existence.
Signed permission slips? I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve had to reprint a permission slip I KNOW I signed, I KNOW I put into a folder, which I KNOW a kid put into a backpack. The Borrowers walls must be papered with my signature and my children’s emergency contact information.
Need a hairbrush in my house? Good luck. You would think an item we use every day at least once a day would be off limits for a Borrower. You would think they’d be afraid to pinch something we could readily have our hands on because of the frequent need. Not so. If I had a dime for every hairbrush that goes missing in this house, I could probably keep us in stock with hairbrushes for a week. Maybe two.
It’s always the books you least expect that come back and haunt you. I never would have thought as a young girl, mesmerized by the prospect of tiny people living under my floors, that they would eventually become the nightmares that disturb my sleep.
Now where is that yellow sock?
