I'm Just Lucky Like That

My kids went to bed beautifully on Friday night; they took baths, ate a yummy dinner and then slipped into a lovely slumber with no fussing of any sort. Or at least not until 11:30 when G woke up to go potty. But still, armed with amoxicillin for my sinus infection and bracing for a weekend with three kids and no plans, it was a good night.

Until 1:30, when I woke up to someone knocking on my door. Hard. And then with the doorbell, over and over. You should know that this isn't the first time this has happened. The teen mom who lives next door with her son and absentee mother often has late-night company that confuses my door with hers. I know, I know, my friends do it all the time too, at 3:00 in the morning. So while I was tempted to chalk it up to the skank-around-Sally next door and ignore it, the incessant ringing and pounding was bound to wake my sleeping lovelies and then I'd have a hot mess on my hands.

I crept over to the window to peek outside and my breath caught in my throat because outside my house is a police cruiser. All I can think of is that my kids are safe with me inside and the only reason the police could possibly be at my house in the middle of the night is because the neighbors finally set the place on fire with their constant pizza burning and they were coming to get us out of the house safely. Now, I know this is almost the least rational explanation that I could have come up with, but it was late and I was disoriented, braless and now full of fear, running down the stairs to meet up with the police.

When I open the door the officer apologizes for waking me and asks if I'm Lindsay. It takes me a minute to convince him that I am not, indeed, Lindsay and he takes another tactic. "Do you know Rena Lilly*?" gesturing next door. Ahhh, yes, the absentee mother. While not friends with Ms. Lilly, I have had numerous polite, overly-personal-on-her-part conversations in the eight months that we've been in this house. One would think by now, she'd know my name isn't Lindsay. But that's the least of my worries because by now the cop is regaling me with the story of Rena's Night Out.

Apparently, she got in a fight with her boyfriend while driving from one bar to the next so he pulled over, shoved her out of the car, threw her keys at her and drove away, leaving her to roll down into the ditch in her drunken stupor and lay there in the freezing cold until someone equally as drunk called the police and then ran, lest they get picked up for DUI. The office looked high and low for Rena's keys to no avail and dirtbag boyfriend wouldn't answer her calls and eventually shut his phone off so he could enjoy his night out without all the pestering from his drunken, assaulted girlfriend.

The officer explained to Rena that her only option was to be taken to detox, as she had nowhere to go. Her response? She'd rather go to jail. OR LINDSAY'S HOUSE. And that brings us back to the present: he asks me if she can sleep on my couch and it's clear that No isn't an option. He warns me that she's "pretty drunk" and heads to the cruiser to help her out of the backseat. She weaves and wobbles her way up the sidewalk, bumming a cigarette from the officer on her way. Once inside my house, I guide her to put her things down and kindly go outside to smoke with the officer. I think it was a bonding moment for the two of them. A way to debrief after the trauma of the night, if you will.

I ran upstairs to grab some blankets and a pillow, looking at everything I own and thinking "what do I not mind getting full of puke/snot/blood/urine tonight?" I rustle up some old linens and get downstairs just in time to see her stripping her pants off with the door still wide open. She hands me her pants, then looks at me tearfully and says, "Do you have some clothes I can wear, 'cause I peed my pants." Wow. I'm now at a loss for words. And my hands are full of a grown woman's urine. After a few attempts at conversation and lots of crying, I get her tucked in on my couch (making a mental note to schedule a steam-cleaning) and head up to lay awake for the rest of the night.

In the morning, I ask her where her daughter is and find that she hasn't seen her, nor the grandson, in two days and that's what started the Fight last night. A moment later I mention that there's a strange car parked outside and I think I can hear music coming from her house. She jumps off the couch and races to her front door. Knocking, ringing the bell and kicking the door, no one will answer. She comes back in my house and runs out my back door, ten seconds later she's flying back to her front door and throws up her hands, yelling "They fuckin' left!" As luck would have it, my four-year-old was awake to witness the spectacle.

Rena goes outside again and runs around the back of the house and after a minute or so, comes back in. She grabs her stuff and sputters "I gotta go quick before they lock the door again" and just like that, she's gone. I haven't heard a word from her since, but when I went to bed on Saturday night, dirtbag boyfriend's car was out front, nestled in for a sleepover.


*Names have been changed to protect those with questionable judgment and situational incontinence.