the country life, part Deux

Not many happy stories begin with the line “There I was, aiming a rifle at the sliding glass door and when I pulled back the curtain there was a dude in a hooded sweatshirt looking back at me….”

This is no exception, although the silver lining in this dark cloud of parenting hell is that the hooded figure who was almost killed by the protective pregnant woman was NOT a serial rapist or a home invader or a murderer and he didn’t have a weapon, otherwise I’D be dead, since I’d (luckily for the kid) forgotten to turn off the safety.

Let me back up. So tonight I was checking into TeenHer’s cell phone usage, and when I realized a) she’s used 900 minutes this month and b) she’s been on her phone after curfew (for the 4^th time) I decided to come downstairs and talk to M about it, and remove the phone. Besides, he was talking, or the TV was on-I heard voices down there even though it was late. When I flipped on the stair lights, M came over with the phone in his hand, flipped them off and told me “someone’s on the porch. I’m on the phone with 911”. By the way, great response time 911, I’m glad I have my own weapon. After I got the few details (the person was in the yard, walked down the length of the porch, may or may not still be on the porch beside my 12 year old daughter’s sliding glass door) I did the only sensible thing for a pregnant woman living in the country (wearing a nursing/maternity nightie, no less) can do; I ran upstairs and assembled the rifle. (yes it was in a locked case, yes the parts are kept in different spots in the room, no the ammo is not kept in the same place as the weapon, no our decision to own firearms is not up for discussion)

“I’ve got the rifle” I called as I walked down the stairs in the dark.

“Go stand at TeenHer’s door” M called to me, still on the phone. Where the fuck are the police? I hear nothing, see no sirens. I thought he meant her sliding glass door; he really meant her bedroom door. Details. I creep into the bedroom, rifle at my side, and ease the curtain back, and there the little fuck is, hooded face staring back at me. I shouted, he ran. I ran to the living room, handed the rifle to M (I’m pregnant! Recoil!) And told him to fire off a shot on the porch- took the phone to talk to dispatch.

Upstairs, TeenHer is shaking on my bed where we sent her when we thought we were about to fire a weapon. I tell her this is her only chance to tell me if one of her friends might be on our porch or in our yard, because someone is about to get shot. “No! What’s going on! I’m scared!”

“Do you have a weapon?” asks the dispatch. “Fuck yes I have a weapon.” M doesn’t fire the shot; the scumbag is gone. I’m still on with dispatch when she says “They got him” and I’m sure she’s talking to someone else, about something else. “What?”

“He was in a golf cart. Hold on. Does your daughter have a boyfriend? He says he was visiting his girlfriend”

“BRING HIM HERE”

Upstairs TeenHer maintains her position. Has no idea who might have been on the porch. The cop in the yard radios his partner for the name of the kid.

It’s her boyfriend.

After the lecture (please let me say I think it was mercifully short) I tell her she’s staying home from school tomorrow and she has the balls to argue with me. “That makes no sense!”

If the sight of your pregnant mother pointing a rifle at your boyfriend through a glass door doesn’t scare you into contrition, then I have to say I don’t know what the fuck we can ever do to keep this kid in line.

Mother, I know you read this and I’d be laughing too. Just be kind in the re-telling, please.