The time I was almost robbed. . .

I have a tale to tell you. . .try to picture this with me. . .

It's Sunday afternoon.  I've put both children down for naps (Score! They never nap at the same time).  Bill is out of the house, working.  My dad is sleeping.  My mom is working on some schoolwork at her computer and I am using the time to wrap some presents while I don't have to distract Cole from immediately opening what I've just wrapped.

I'm in our family dining room.  There's a large window at the back of the room that faces the backyard.  It's about 1:00 p.m. on Sunday afternoon and there's no football today (well, worth watching anyway).  So I put on some Christmas carols and get to wrapping.

I hear some banging.  Cole must be up out of his bed and playing in his room.  His bedroom is directly above this room.  He does this sometimes. I usually go up and as I open the door to his room, he (in one, smooth move) jumps from the floor to his bed and starts to snore loudly.  This time, I decide to wait a minute to make sure he's really awake and playing so I listen for a moment longer. . .

. . .and that's when I see this guy in our backyard, looking up at our house.  He's staring at the back of the house.  He's hiding something in the arm of his coat.  He's wearing sunglasses.  And a big coat.  The hood is up, covering most of his face.  But I can see that he has one of those goatees that make a perfect triangle right below his lip. . .and very clean sneakers.

I figure he must be just cutting through our backyard.  That must be it.  And he's waiting in the backyard for a friend.  For some reason, he must have walked a little faster than his friend and he's waiting, in my backyard, for his buddy to catch up.  Right?  That makes sense.

I say to my mom. . ."Maa.  There's a guy in our backyard."  "Okay.  Must be cutting through," she sings back to me.  See? I'm not the only one that thinks this way. . .

But as he continues to look up at the house, I start to realize this probably isn't good.  And I say to my mom again. . ."Mom.  Call the cops. This guy is seriously standing in the backyard and looking at the house." 

She tells me that I should.  Because I'm looking at the guy.

Real helpful, ma.  Really helpful.

So I kept standing at the window, looking at this guy.  And I know my story makes it seem like I was looking at the guy in my backyard for about two days, but in reality, it was about half a minute.  Still, way too long for me to watch a guy, in my backyard, size up my house.

And all of a sudden, he sees me in the window.  Turns around, hops our fence, and runs like hell down the street.  Hmph.  Weird.  I went back to wrapping my presents. . .

I know what you're saying.  What's wrong with me?  I know, I know.  I'm an educated woman with two small children and I should have put it together quicker than that and called immediately.  But really. . .this town is so strange.  And it's not all that unrealistic to think that a man in his mid-20s might be spending some time in my backyard, waiting for his friend, to cut through the back.  Not that strange at all. . .

My sister-law-called seconds later.  I told her the story.  She said, in that way that she's able to call me an idiot without me really noticing until later. . .(not that different from the way Bill's able to do the same. . .) . . "yeah Erika.  Call the cops."

So I do.  And in my nicest and calmest phone voice I told the dispatcher what happened.  That I was just alerting the force that there might be a semi-weirdo waiting for a friend to cut through backyards in the area.  The dispatcher told me not to leave and to expect the police within minutes.

This was when I realized that this was probably serious and I went to the backyard to check our basement door.  Our basement door is directly below the dining room window . . . exactly where I first saw this man.

And yep. . .what you probably had figured out awhile ago is in fact true. . .the door was kicked in.  Well, unsuccessfully kicked.  Sort of dented.  Thank God.

Because this is when I think to myself. . ."what would have happened if that door didn't hold up to his kicks?"

::shudder::  still.

So this cop who looks exactly like Conan O'Brien shows up.  I tell him the story, show him where I was standing wrapping presents, tell him exactly what the man looked like.  Because after all, I looked at the guy for like. . .days.

I took him to the back of the house where he tried to get a footprint off the door.  No luck.  He stepped in closer to me, (he was really, really tall) looked straight down at me and said, "What were you thinking?  You have little ones in here?"

I mumbled some apologies and this was when it really started to sink in.  I called Bill home from work.  I was really freaked.  And I couldn't stop asking myself. . .what would have happened if that door hadn't held those kicks?

A bit later this other cop showed up.  He, too, asked for my story.  I told him.   He asked. . .with a complete straight face and in no joking manner. . .if I knew any drug dealers who might want to hurt me.

Drug dealers.  Who want to hurt me.

Are we serious here?

Looking back, I'm not sure how I managed to answer his question without laughing, but I did.  Bill was with me.  He looked away in an attempt not make eye contact that would start us laughing.  The cop asked me if I knew anyone from high school that might want anything in my basement. 

Someone who is still so mad about something I did 15 years ago wants something in my basement. . .

Are we serious here?

Then he asked if we kept guns and/or money in the basement.

Guns or money.  Guns and money.

Are we serious here?

Well, if by money you mean roughly 2 tons of my dad's moldy books that he refuses to get rid of and toys that the kids no longer will play with. . .then yeah.  I got that. 

But really. . .if he had a badge he must have graduated from the academy, right?

So that door has been locked.  I go down about 6 times a night to check.  As are the other doors in the house.  And the windows.  Because really. . .there's not much that feels more violating that feeling unsafe in your home. 

Especially with children.

We figure that idiot probably won't come back and that he scuffed up his clean, white sneakers pretty well.  But I know I never liked those goatees. . .

Family news. . .

I'm sure you all remember the gingerbread Lightening McQueen of '09?  I decided to go a bit more low key this year and stick with the gingerbread men. . .


I think it's safe to say that decorating gingerbread is not one of my strengths. . .



We had fun.  And I let Cole eat skittles. . .and I suppose that's the point anyway. 

Cole did ask me to make one of the gingerbread men anatomically correct.  I'm hoping that's a precursor to his increasing interest in potty training. . .and not something he'll say to his memere.

The Tills is big.  She officially has four teeth now.  The front two are eerily familiar of mine pre-braces.  Poor girl.  She's scooting all over the house now, too.  Walking is eminently around the corner. . .

And finally. . .both of the children are insanely into Yo Gabba Gabba lately.  This is a new phenomena because we never had Nickelodeon before we moved here.  Now we do.  And man.  We love Yo Gabba. . .

Nice thing, though?  Bill and I like Yo Gabba, too. . .like this video. . .

. . .I actually sing this song to myself every time I get upset at something at work. . .or before a big presentation. . .in the shower. . .the possibilities are endless.