Chapter: 4  The Great Kitchen Barricade

  Apathy Jane awoke not to the usual avian-dinosaurian screech this time, but to a peculiar aroma wafting through the house. At first, she lazily surmised it might be last night's leftovers gone sour, a truly uninspired culinary crime. But as she emerged from her bedroom, the unmistakable, acrid scent of charred cereal filled the air, replacing any lingering dreams with a vague sense of dread.

Following the olfactory trail, which intensified with every step, she discovered Atticus in the kitchen. It was less a kitchen and more a makeshift laboratory, bathed in the soft, malevolent glow of the oven. The unfortunate dead cockroach, now the unwitting star of his nocturnal investigations, lay motionless beneath the unblinking glare of multiple flashlights. Just as Jane entered, a small, yet determined, flame began licking at the edges of a cereal box, propped precariously on the open oven door. Flickering shadows danced across the walls, a macabre puppet show of imminent kitchen destruction.

With a swift, almost un-Jane-like motion, she snatched the cereal box away, saving the kitchen from becoming a cinder-block monument to crispy flakes. After assessing the smoky, cereal-strewn situation, a chilling realization dawned on her: her nocturnal scientist required closer, more permanent supervision. This was beyond the casual monitoring she usually subjected him to.

To prevent future midnight experiments involving pyrotechnics and breakfast foods, Jane embarked on a mission to secure the kitchen. This wasn't just about childproofing; this was about barricading. She scoured the neighborhood, then the internet (specifically online garage sales, because of course), for a suitable door. Finally, she stumbled upon a listing for a sturdy oak door, complete with brass fixtures, that seemed destined for her kitchen’s future as an impenetrable fortress. Though slightly oversized, it possessed an air of unyielding permanence.

After enlisting the reluctant aid of a handyman to sand it down to size—a task that involved surprisingly little apathy from Jane, given the stakes—she installed the door herself. To further fortify her domain, she then used her credit card to purchase and meticulously fit construction-grade knob covers, complete with locking mechanisms, onto the new door. And, for added, perhaps excessive, security, she took to wearing a lanyard for the keys around her waist, a constant jangling reminder of the vigilance required to protect her household. She felt less like a mother and more like a jailer, albeit one who could now occasionally nap.

Just as she was admiring her handiwork, the distinct sound of a toilet flushing, followed by an ominous gurgle, emanated from the bathroom. She walked in to find Atticus, beaming innocently, while his stuffed clownfish, floated triumphantly atop a rapidly overflowing toilet bowl. Jane sighed, then, a fleeting spark of pride igniting within her, she remembered her recent door-locking purchase. With newfound purpose, she promptly put a locking knob cover over the bathroom doorknob, silently cursing her next morning rush to relieve herself and the inevitable, key-fumbling dance that would accompany it.

Jane slumped against the now-secure bathroom door, the combined events of the night washing over her. She came to the understanding that keeping Atticus safe required nothing less than ninja training.

Jane found herself ankle-deep in the remnants of Atticus's toilet expedition, mop in hand, when he reappeared. This time, he was encased in a fluffy shark costume, all fin and wide, toothy grin. “Atticus, no! Don’t come in here, you’ll get your costume all dirty,” Jane warned, the words barely out before he turned on his heel. Moments later, he returned, this time in a full scuba diving ensemble, complete with flippers and a snorkel. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he upended a box of laundry soap directly onto Jane's already sodden shoes. She slipped and fell directly into the mop bucket like it was a bucket seat. The mop handle landing directly on her head. Atticus dove into the flooded bathroom like it was a SlipNSlide. A beat of stunned silence, then Jane let out a genuine, exhausted chuckle. “Well, now we’re both forever unclean,” she declared, surveying the foamy, clownfish-inhabited disaster. The next few hours were a blur of four emergency laundry loads, followed by the usual nightly ritual of nuggies, a bath that, thankfully, stayed within the tub, and finally, goodnight kisses for Atticus and his steadfast companion, a slightly worn pineapple, perched on his nightstand.

Later, as Jane drifted off to sleep, picturing worse-case scenarios: Atticus escaping unnoticed from his school, scaling fences, and making a beeline for a nearby pond. Deciding to instead focus on the more immediate, manageable goal of not waking up to a smoky kitchen again, thanks to her new locks, she let the exhaustion take over. Autism is... tough.

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