A Mommy Story

I was sitting in my quiet living room this afternoon, with Cordy at preschool, Mira asleep, and only the tapping of my keyboard and click of my mouse echoing in the room. It was a peaceful moment, relaxing by myself. But then there was a loud *thump* against the front door.

Damn, I thought, a bird must have flown into the door. Or maybe a package was roughly dropped off by UPS.

I opened the door and looked out the glass of the storm door, hoping not to see a stunned robin on my front porch. But there was no robin. And there was no package. My glance shifted up, and I saw the neighbor boy and his friend standing at the end of my driveway, picking up a rock. The two boys noticed me and started nonchalantly walking back towards the neighbor’s yard, occasionally glancing at me from the corner of their eyes and mumbling something under their breath while occasionally giggling. The rock was casually tossed out into the street by the friend.

Opening the door, I still wondered what had happened. I walked out to check the mail, and then as I came back up the walk, I saw it sitting next to the doormat: a rock. A rock that I’m sure wasn’t there earlier in the day.

I picked up the rock, glancing back at the boys. They were still watching me carefully, acting like they had no idea where that rock came from, shrugged their shoulders, and then walked off down the street. As they turned to walk away, I loudly asked, “Gee, I wonder how this rock ended up flying into my door?” They gave no response as they walked away, whispering something to each other.

So apparently we now have flying rocks in our neighborhood. We can add that to the other fantastical items found in this small community, including fence boards that warp themselves, tree branches that break on their own, and a mystical stick that carves wavy, looping lines into the paint of our six month old, still not paid off SUV.

We have enough magic on our street to rival Hogwarts.

I wish some action could be taken, but so far we have no recourse because we did not witness any of these actions, so we can’t prove who did it. It amazes me that kids can be so destructive for fun, and parents can care so little. Without proof, though, the parents don’t want to hear about it.

There may be a light at the end of the tunnel, though. A sign has been placed in the yard next to ours much like this one:

Do you think burying a St. Joseph statue in their yard would help sell their house if I was the one who buried it instead of them? Maybe I’ll help them market the house: “Great neighborhood, quiet location, just watch out for the magic flying rocks.“