Ok, so I haven’t been writing on here lately because I have been on hiatus from everything. From Congress-harassing. End-of-school-year-chaos. Reality. 

It’s just been a tough time for me in the last couple of months and I realized that I had not stopped moving full-throttle since last summer.

So I slowly began retreating into domestic bliss.  Snuggling with the kiddos.  Reading books.  Actually stocking the refrigerator with food that doesn’t self-preserve through nuclear holocaust.  My house is clean, the kids are spending enormous amounts of time in the yard playing while I sway lazily on my porch swing.  It’s been a freaking Norman Rockwell painting around here lately.

Until Monday.  Until trouble literally arrived at my doorstep.

Three of the dumbest, most obnoxious juvenile delinquents walking by my house in the middle of the day decided it would be neat to threaten to bomb my house.  To my face.  In front of my eight-year-old son as we were getting into my truck to run some errands.

W.T.F.

They repeated the threat two more times.

So I stepped out of my vehicle and politely, with a smile, sweetly mentioned that I would hate to see them get into trouble for joking around like that.  These days bomb threats are not taken lightly.  I even finished with, “Have a good day, guys.” 

I got back into my truck and watched as these little assholes stopped two houses down and waited for me to leave… as if.  So I called the routine police line and reported the threat, described all three punks who looked to be about 11 or 12 years old in detail, and asked for a cruiser to come out.

You will love this part.

“The larger boy was about 5-feet-tall and had to weigh about 130 to 150 pounds, he was on crutches and had a bright red, full-leg cast, dark shirt, light-colored shorts. The two smaller boys were thin.  One was wearing a dark shirt and shorts, the other was not wearing a shirt and was bouncing a basketball.  All three boys were white and had dark hair.”

“We’ll send an officer right out.”

The shitbricks eventually started walking again as I sat in the truck with The Boy waiting for the police to arrive.  I could see that the suspects had hobbled and bounced two whole streets away by the time the officer arrived coming from their direction.  The officer asked me to recount the incident, which I did using my experience as a patrol officer to give as much relevant detail as possible.  The officer then says, “I just drove around several of the neighborhood streets on my way here and didn’t see them.”

I was a little shocked at the cat-like reflexes of the heavy child on crutches with a bright red leg cast, so easily evading police in a completely flat residential neighborhood of one-story houses.  

But I was truly stumped by the next question from the officer.  “Do you think they have access to bomb-making equipment?”

Um?  Really?

“I wouldn’t have any idea as I mentioned that I do not know who the boys are.  I have worked with young people and can say that I honestly feel that they are deviant little menaces, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you all.  They threatened to bomb the house of a total stranger with a child, without provocation.  And it definitely concerns me that then they waited for me to leave my house.  I rather like my home and property and don’t want to see it vandalized.”

The officer babbled on about taking another look for the inconspicuous hobbling youth bouncing a basketball and drove away.

In the middle of a rather peaceful sleep that evening, my neighbor called me at 1130pm to tell me my garbage was on fire.

So I went outside to see two paper lawn bags we had put out on the curb ablaze.  Like, there was an accelerant-involved-kind-of-blazing-grass-clippings-fire shooting a good twelve feet into the air underneath my neighbor’s tree.

So I called 9-1-1.

The firefighter said my grass clippings likely spontaneously caught on fire.  The police officer on second shift responding to the fire said the previous officer did not take a report on the bomb threat, but he would “take one now.”  Gee, thanks.  I’m so glad my bomb threat turned out only to be a spontaneous freak-act of nature that is actually worth making record of.

They all patted me on the head and called it a night.

Freak of nature, spontaneous fire of damp grass clippings.

The next day, my neighbor came home from work and as I told him what had transpired the day before, he says, “Those little fuckers??? I heard them go by bouncing their basketball at 1130 last night.”

Exactly.

So I called the responding officer and left a voice mail explaining that the neighbor confirmed it was the same kids that made the threat that set the fire and that it would be nice if he actually followed up and checked with the school resource officer to find out who the KID. WITH. A. BRIGHT. RED. LEG. CAST. might be.

I have not heard back.

So today, I felt creative.  I decided to let my inner BAT. SHIT. CRAZY. have a little fun…

“Be the CHANGE you wish to SEE in the WORLD. Or spend puberty in juvie. Your choice!”

“MASTERMINDS DON’T BREAK THE LAW WHILE HOBBLING ON CRUTCHES WITH A BRIGHT RED CAST!”

“NO TRESPASSING

CONNECTICUT LAW SAYS

WE CAN SHOOT YOU.

FOR YOUR READING PLEASURE:

Sec. 53a-20. Use of physical force in defense of premises. A person in possession or control of premises, or a person who is licensed or privileged to be in or upon such premises, is justified in using reasonable physical force upon another person when and to the extent that he reasonably believes such to be necessary to prevent or terminate the commission or attempted commission of a criminal trespass by such other person in or upon such premises; but he may use deadly physical force under such circumstances only (1) in defense of a person as prescribed in section 53a-19, or (2) when he reasonably believes such to be necessary to prevent an attempt by the trespasser to commit arson or any crime of violence, or (3) to the extent that he reasonably believes such to be necessary to prevent or terminate an unlawful entry by force into his dwelling as defined in section 53a-100, or place of work, and for the sole purpose of such prevention or termination.

A police report has been filed, and neighbors have submitted witness accounts describing the three juvenile subjects that have threatened this home, its occupants, and committed arson. So please reread above. For your own safety. You have been advised of our rights to protect ourselves and our property.

THIS HOME BELONGS TO A 25-YEAR ACTIVE DUTY SOLDIER OF THE ARMY INFANTRY,

DECORATED WAR VETERAN,

AND

CERTIFIED SNIPER.

ALSO, UNITED STATES MILITARY TECHNOLOGY IS A BEAUTIFUL THING.

YOU ARE BEING WATCHED AND RECORDED WITH MOTION-SENSITIVE TARGETED SURVELIENCE DEVICES WITH HIGH DEFINITION QUALITY NIGHT VISION.

DIGITALLY RECORDED, CATALOGUED AND SHARED WITH LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT.

HAVE A NICE DAY.”

Cheers to BAT. SHIT. CRAZY.

[Ed note: I am fully aware that I misspelled 'surveillance', but my spellcheck wasn't. Good thing deviant minors wouldn't know any better.]

If you are not familiar, we have attempted church with autism.

And though I have never given up hope, I have not been actively pursuing success since.

Today I felt hopeful and maybe even a little bottom of the barrel with no place to go but up.  I got myself and the kids dressed for church and thought to myself what the hell, it’s worth a shot.

We pulled into the parking lot at church and RM was already directing us away from the church and toward the attached school cafeteria where she knows that young people like her brother collect there on occasion after school for catechism class.  Actually, I am sure she only knows as much as the collecting there part.  And oh yes, we have had some tragic drop-offs throughout the last two years when The Boy walked off into the crowd of students and RM was told we were not staying for the fun.  But eventually, we could pull up to the curb alongside the cafeteria and she would say, “Bye, Brother! See you in the afternoon!”

So it was only natural that today she would want to go to the part of this place where she knew departure was temporary.  Why on earth would she willingly go toward the building that is full of noise and people and music that rattles the ceiling?  So I tempted her with the bait of her grandparents inside waiting for her (after I scanned the lot for their car because what a freaking horror show that would be if they didn’t go to church this day).  RM flung herself onto the pavement a couple of times, but then saw Bapcia and Papa’s car.  Now we were getting somewhere.

We made it to the doors of the church.  We made it inside the doors.  There was instantaneous screams of “NO!” but I calmly repeated several times that Bapcia and Papa were waiting for her.  Then I simply scooped her up under her arms from behind, locked a death grip of intertwined fingers around her chest praying that I could do this with all 51 pounds of her and pushed my way through the line.  I said excuse me about a dozen times, but people just don’t expect you to thrust yourself and screaming child into church.

I continued to carry her this way weaving through the aisles and rows searching for my parents.  When I found my mother I have to say I appreciated the look of awe on her face to see us there.  In church.  On time.  For the first time in four years.

We had arrived about five minutes before the mass started.  It was a tense five minutes of setting up a chair alongside the edge of the room, behind a pillar, oddly feeling like a bunker of sorts.  Her toes balancing all of her weight from left to right and left to right again and her fingers were now permanently implanted in her eardrums.  It was hard to reach her to even tell her that I had the tablet in my backpack.  Papa came and sat next to her.  Then RM calmed for a moment.  But it was short-lived as the lecturer welcomed the parish and began listing some announcements, finally asking everyone to rise.

We stood as the music began and the drums pounded along with the guitars and piano and the sound of a few hundred people singing along.  Her fingers now blue from squeezing them into her ears with all her might, tears began streaming down her cheeks and beads of sweat took seat upon her nose – but she steadied herself and waited it out.  When the song ended, so did her patience.  She started screaming “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!”

I had already gathered up our things, and told her it was time to go.  I held my head high as we walked around the back perimeter of God’s House, fellow brothers and sisters staring, some smiling, some with the look of shock.  And The Boy and I smiled at each other.  At the back of this House, I stopped and turned to my son and gave him a kiss as we all took hands and walked out the door into the day.

Ten minutes.  My baby girl made it into the church.  My baby girl survived five minutes of anxiety getting settled in and then five more minutes of pure sensory hell from head to toe to endure the opening hymn.  Ten minutes.  Ten glorious minutes.

Every second of those ten minutes was a gift today.

I will take it.

And next time, I will enjoy eleven minutes.  Maybe even more.