September 25, 2006
My children so rarely all sit still at the same time that, when it happened unexpectedly one day last week, I had to take a picture. Actually, this is an historic photo because it is the first time they ever, all four, sat still together as an entire sibling group. Yeah, so they’re watching t.v. I’m a bad, bad mom. Maybe if I let them do it more often I’d be a slightly more sane mom.
This, obviously, is the first photo of my kids I’ve posted here on the blog. It, could, quite possibly, be the only one I ever post. You see, I have mixed feelings about about posting children’s pictures on blogs. On the one hand, I love to visit other adoption related blogs and see all of the beautiful children that people are adopting or have adopted. On the other hand, my permissions are wide open for anyone to view my space (otherwise I’d never find George, would I?), and I don’t want the highlight of some perv’s day to be in front of a computer screen with my children’s pictures on it. This may sound a bit alarmist to some. After all, aren’t there millions of web sites with millions of pictures, some of which are perv-dedicated, so why and how would they stumble onto my blog?
The answer is simple: I am a weirdo magnet.
It all started in junior high school where all the weird boys, you know, the ones who still picked their noses and ate their boogers in class, decided they wanted to “go with” me. In high school I seemed to attract more than my fair share of the boys who only recently stopped eating their boogers in public and still couldn’t differentiate between the words booger and burger. Hmmm . . . I wonder if that wasn’t more than coincidence? Anyway, though I had decent boyfriends (call me judgmental, but I wouldn’t date the booger-eaters) it all just kind of continued to slide downhill into my college years as I began to attract criminal weirdness. Here is a brief rundown:
* College, 1st senior year (I was on the 5-year plan) — Involved in what was ultimately deemed a hostage situation. In case you were wondering, I was NOT the crazy person with the allegedly bomb-laden briefcase and (what turned out to be fake) bomb detonator threatening to blow up the sports arena full of people. By the way, it wasn’t a basketball game — we were all there for a religious service. I’ll give a big congratulatory shout out to whoever figures out where I went to college.
* Married less than a year — We come home from church to find a basement window shattered. My husband wonders if the extreme cold caused the window to break, but has me wait outside while he goes in to see what is going on. Soon thereafter the cold theory is blown out of the water when an unidentified subject jumps from one of our second story windows and runs for it. Too darn bad the ice didn’t make him break something when he landed.
* Married about a year — Neighbors catch a guy acting as lookout as another guy tries to break in to the back of our house. Luckily they are actually caught. The criminals that is, not the neighbors.
* Oldest daughter about 2 years old when I see crazy person pacing back and forth talking and gesticulating to imaginary people in front of our house. I decide not to call the police because the sidewalk is, after all and in this case unfortunately, a public place.
* Oldest daughter barely 3 years old when same crazy person comes back to gawk in my living room window and give me a creepy, knowing smile and wave. I still don’t know what he thought he knew. The police pick him up several blocks from my house because I was “able to give [them] a very good description.” Well, that’s what happens when you take over an hour to respond and Mr. Scary keeps circling the house looking for other windows to look into.
* Soon thereafter we realize crazy guy is stalking our house. He tells police his ex-girlfriend lives there and he wants to “get back together.” He, among other things, leaves a Valentine card depicting a half-naked Latino man in my door. Does he think I’m Tanisha Jones? The world will never know.
* New Year’s day 2002 Mr. Scary shows up at my back door at 7:00 a.m. with his nose practically pressed to the glass. I scream, he stands there, with his ginormous can of Colt 45 and watches me unflinchingly. Leaves only after I call the police and shout from a second story window for help.
* The police do nothing. We move.
* Life has been pretty quiet and peaceful ever since, at least as far as our involvement with crime goes.
So, what are the chances that, out of the millions of kids’ photos on the millions of websites out there, mine would be singled out by some whacko? Well, if you’re me, the chances are apparently above average.
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says hello.