Monday, July 18, 2011

A Policeman At My Door

My friend and her four children came over to play today. 

That made a total of 10 children running around our acreage.

There was a knock at my door. There was a uniform through the glass.
"Stern's dead."

That was my first thought.

The officer asked "Are all of your children accounted for?"

My mind was racing: three girls on a walk to the bridge, three boys playing in the woods, the little one's at our feet coloring. Wait. Were they call coloring?

"Who do you have?"

A blond little girl.


She had slipped out the door in her "I love grandma" shirt, furry boots & left her pants behind and was off to find her big sister who went on a walk.

I'm thinking I was not looking like Mother of the Year at this point.

After checking my name out, Mr. Policeman emerged from his car with a much less accusing voice and told me we would be having a much different conversation had I just been sitting in the house drinking a beer.

It was all I could do not to say, "That's funny because I don't have a TV & I don't drink. All I DO is watch my children." 

I decided the sarcasm probably wouldn't help my situation.

When it comes time to vote for mother of the year . . .

"Vote 4 Pedro"