After Midnight

1 a.m.
I have crossed the threshold. Gone where I never thought I would go. I have called the cops on my neighbor’s party.

As a former party girl who has had my fair share of cop visits, I never dreamed I would become the stodgy old neighbor who picked up the phone and said, “They are making too much noise.” That was before I had sleepless nights thanks to Braxton-hicks, colicky babies, and croupy coughs. Back then; I didn’t realize that sleep and silence were priceless.

Which is why it’s one in the morning and I am hiding behind the bushes trying to assess the situation at my neighbor’s house. I see 16 or 21 year olds (It’s hard to tell the difference these days) coming in and out of the house. They are screaming at each other in a dramatic fashion, but it’s hard to decipher what exactly is being said or more importantly, if the party is ending.

1:10 a.m.
I call the police. They have already been to the party once.

“Would you like to file a formal complaint?” the officer asks me.

“No, I want to talk to the parents first,” I reply, “But can you still come out and ask them to break it up?”

“We are busy with other calls but will get to it as soon as we can.”

I grab a bag of greasy potato chips and sit down on the couch, trying not to count the minutes before I can return to sleep. Thirty minutes later, the party is still going strong with no sign of the cops. I head back to bed with the hope that, like my husband, I will be able to slip back into the land of nod.

2:00 a.m.
A couple of kids right outside our bedroom are talking on their cell phones. They obviously have a bad connection to China because they are speaking very loudly. This time I step outside and into full view. I am no longer ashamed to be the ragging adult. Now, I am pissed.

“Can you please keep it down?” I yell, “We are trying to sleep.” They pause for a moment and look at me slightly confused. “Thank you,” I add. A waft of vodka hits my nose.

2:05 a.m.
I pick up the phone again to see what is taking the cops so long, but hang up. There are obviously more important criminal events taking place than my sleep loss.

I lie down in bed and begin to obsess about the kids driving home drunk. I think about my girlfriend Renata who might be coming home late from her date night and Annie who went to her cousin’s wedding. I pray for their safety and hope they are at home.

8:05 a.m.
I talk to my neighbor who tells me he called the police the first time. I share with him my plan for next time: Hosing the street partygoers down with my high water pressure hose. It’s brilliant. Not only would it make them go home, it would sober them up. He informs me that I would be arrested for assault. Ooh, I fantasize: I could have my mug shot posted with the headline: Mom Arrested for Soaking Drunk Teenagers.

Is this what I have to look forward to as my three and five year old girls grow up? Barring them from parties where the parents are not home, alcohol pours freely and neighbors contemplate drenching them with water?

3 p.m.
I work myself into an absolute frenzy and decide to give the police station a call. Jason Kravetz, the Traffic Sergeant, graciously listens to me and explains that the best thing to do, as an upset neighbor, is to file a formal complaint also known as a citizen’s arrest. “We have you sign the complaint because you are the victim of the crime, not the police. The person responsible gets a criminal citation with a court date. If alcohol is being served, we often seize the alcohol as evidence.”

Hmm, do I really want to file a criminal complaint against my neighbor? That sure would make me popular at the next neighborhood picnic.

Today
I see the Father of the partying house. Turns out, every time he and his wife leave town, his son has an impromptu party. He promises they have no plans to leave town any time soon.

I contemplate my move the next time they vacation. Which side of the law will this former party girl be on? Will I be the one doing the citizen’s arrest or the one being arrested for assault? At this time, that’s a hard one to call.

State of Grace

Several weeks ago, my girlfriend Annie handed me my new year’s resolution in a small silver box wrapped with a bow. Inside was a pendant necklace inscribed with the word “grace.”

I’m sure this subtle hint to live my life with more grace had nothing to do with my behavior during a recent fender bender. After dropping off my kids at pre-school, another mom backed her Volvo station wagon into my brand new mini-van. She hopped out of her car and asked, “Are you okay?” I jumped out of my car and said “What the [expletive]!” Volvo Mom became quite upset that I swore at her. I’m not sure how but at the end of the insurance information exchange, I was the one apologizing.

Thanks to Annie and the Volvo Mom, I had my New Year’s resolution weeks before the year concluded.

This early resolution came in handy when I recently flew home with my two kids. While standing in the security line, we were sent to Lane 1 that was completely empty. I thought to myself, what joy! Finally someone recognizes the agony of the mother traveling alone with two small children and a multitude of carry-ons. Yeah, right! I didn’t realize that I had been flagged as security risk and needed a team of five TSA officials to search my bags and body.

“Ma’m, you cannot have any contact with your children. Please step aside.” The TSA officials took my two little beauties and moved them down a corridor away from me.

I rubbed my grace necklace as I felt the anger rising within. I am happy to take off my shoes and get the occasional wand over. We all want to be safe. But c’mon, were Mommies now being profiled as a security risk? Did I look more anxious than any other person about to embark on a five-hour flight with two kids five and under? Or was I just being punished for my bad fashion choice of a pink sweater with orange stripes?

I flashed back to two years ago, when I single handily shut down the Wichita, Kansas’s airport. My pregnant belly received quite the pat down. They suspected I had some type of drugs in tow and kept swabbing my clothes and diaper bag. Which made perfect sense. We all know that the waddling pregnant mother traveling with a toddler has proven quite successful as a drug smuggling disguise.

“Can you please tell me why I was chosen?” I asked the TSA officer tending to my recent security breach. There was no good answer. Of course, I didn’t buy my ticket the night before, pay cash or make last minute changes. God knows if I were able to live that spontaneously, I wouldn’t be standing in the Cinnicinati airport with baby Belle in one hand and a bottle of extra strength Tylenol in the other.

I looked over at my kids who were being questioned about the origins of their Tinkerbelle suitcase. Fortunately, they thought it was a game. I smiled at them as the TSA official patted me down. When she touched my over-inflated post-holiday belly, I felt an inner grumbling. How dare she remind me of my pooch without fair warning. Does that mean that I now have to wear control top panties when I fly?

After the food bag, the book bag, the in-case-we-get-stranded bag and the bag-that-used-to-be-my-purse had been searched and swabbed, I was released from suspicion. My ticket got the big yellow mark meaning A.O.K for this frazzled mommy. No threat here. My kids ran over to me as we resumed “contact.” And with as much charm as I could muster in my disheveled state, I actually thanked the TSA officials.

There were a few odd stares from other passengers as I reassembled my clothing and threw my bags onto the double stroller. As we walked away from security, I started to giggle. I should be flattered, I thought. Did someone actually think that I could plan something more than whether it’s hot dogs or chicken nuggets for dinner? That I might be able to withhold information and not be bribed by the promise of a full night’s sleep or an afternoon with no whining?

My sordid and exhausted mind decided to take this intrusion as a compliment. Some TSA official had greatly overestimated my capabilities. I decided to celebrate my new graceful and extremely capable self with a large chocolate bar and a People magazine from the airport gift shop.