(Now comedic) family run-ins with law enforcement

Recently, I was cleaning Jack's room and came across troves of material from his policeman phase: heavy-duty handcuffs; badges; the hat; and photos taken with various law enforcement officers. We spent his fifth birthday at the Ward 3 police station here in DC, he in his light blue button-down, navy pants, belt, shoes, hat, badge and all belt-based accessories a policeman would need. The Ward 3 team was very accommodating and took him very seriously, answering his questions with well-masked amusement.

I did not, at that time, think that just eighteen months later, at the tender age of seven, Jack would lead his little brother on a pre-dawn mission to find pinecones nor that they would then be escorted home by two large FBI agents patrolling our neighborhood.

I myself was cared for by two large agents once. They were Emergency Rescue Squad members and came in the early morning hours because I called them. I did not remember calling them -it was an epic night of debauchery during senior year of college; I'd broken up with a guy and was feeling liberated- and when my roommate, clad in an oversized Tigger tee answered the door, she was as surprised as I was when they later entered my room.

"Ma'am, we hear there is an intoxicated female in the house."

My roommate: "Well yes there is. How did you know that?"

"Ma'am, she called us."

"What?? She's fine. She's asleep."

"Ma'am, since we came out, we have to make sure she is OK. Please show us her room."

Tigger showed them down the hall, and there I was, in a red, spaghetti-strap, thermal nightgown. I still had on all the jewelry I'd worn out that night, and I'm certain my make-up had seen better days.

"Ma'am, how are you feeling?"

Me: "What? I'm fine of course. Why are you here?"

"Ma'am, you called us. You said your stomach was hurting, that you'd had too much to drink and that you were concerned. We need to examine you and make sure you are OK."

"Don't touch me! What kind of a woman do you think I am?"

"Ma'am, we have to or we'll have to call your parents."

I'm not actually sure they could have because I was legally an adult but I was still a dependent, and that really snapped me to attention.

They determined that I was fine and then asked me to sign the release form.

Tigger said, "Do you need me to sign for you?"

And I replied, with ludicrous confidence, "Of course not, I can do it myself."

Apparently, the result was a loopy, swooshing script that covered the entire page. I know this because when I awoke the next morning, bejeweled and suffering a tremendous Irish flu -rather like some sort of Dynasty gal- I saw the carbon copy I'd signed.

I remember toddling out to the kitchen and seeing my roommates look at me with hilarious expressions: clearly they could not wait to fill me in on all I didn't recall.

The "Nichols calling 911 on herself" story spread like wildfire, and I dare say it upped my esteem in the eyes of many. At the very least, it soon started to make for a great story and continues to do to this day, more than fifteen years later. 

When the boys were brought home by the FBI that September morning a few years back, all I could then process was A) anger, B) relief, and C) shock at their attire. Jack had on glow-in-the-dark solar system pajamas, "night vision goggles" crafted from glow-in-the-dark wiki sticks ("because it was still dark outside, Mom.") and a pot-holder loop strapped to his head, and socks on his hands but nothing on his feet. Oliver, meanwhile, was sockless and in PJs too but also had on his Pull-Up which seemed to make the whole episode that much more ludicrous.

When I asked about the hand-socks, Oliver said, "Well, Jack weally didn't want to get pwicked by the pinecones." Erm, and what about y'alls feet as your traipsed down our back alley and along Mass Ave? No answer there.

We apologized profusely to the FBI agents who were in the neighborhood on regular duty as some government leader lives nearby and also expressed our unending gratitude before shutting the door, shell-shocked. Tom was still in his boxers for crying out loud. But this, too, today makes a fine story, and I began to wonder if there's something in our blood.

Does your family have tales of amusing run-ins with law enforcement too?

Hmm...

I was sitting on a kitchen stool just now, and Nutmeg sneaked up behind me and bit my butt. Then he jumped onto our table and swept an entire deck of cards off onto the floor. I think he's pissed about the snow we received this morning, and frankly, I am too. Thank god my mother arrived last night and can save the boys and me from ourselves. She's been wearing shorts for the past six weeks -#Louisiana- and thought the snow was pretty. Hmph.

We all went out to lunch and then puttered around in Crate & Barrel. I didn't buy this bad boy, but it's fetching, and I appreciate its size. Where, however, would one would tuck this? Whilst at the table of "gift items," this flask being one, we saw Corkers.

Do you know this worthless product? For the bargain price of $7 (now $5 on sale) each, you can turn your old corks into all manner of animal and robot. I love that the box reminds you, "Cork not included." Why in god's name would I throw money in the toilet to turn my old cork into a rabbit? Do I need a Corker army to help remind me of something? Thank you but no. I will recycle my corks and keep on drinking. 

At that point, Mom and I were in hysterics, and the kids, apparently forgetting we were in a store SELLING these things, started saying, loudly, "What other worthless, stupid products are on this table??" and cackling like asylum inmates. I quickly hissed, "Boys, SSSHHHHSSHHHH!" and looked around furtively. We left.

Tonight I'm making halibut with mango salsa, roasted asparagus with aioli and a strawberry-rhubarb pie. As soon as I get off this couch. Which is not appealing at all. Not least because Mom and the boys are watching a movie in the basement while I have some time off. Have I mentioned how thrilled I am that she's here?

Flying

I glance down at my hands in a moment's pause; they're shaking. Slightly but perceptibly. Another text pings and, as if in support, the washing machine's sing-song buzzer plays its tune. It's time again, the fourth today, to switch loads. 

I ignore the text and leave the mixer cocked open, chocolate cupcake batter dripping from the wire whisk into the bowl below. Downstairs, I transfer the clothes from the dryer to the basket-pausing momentarily in their womb-like warmth- and then the wet duds from the washer to the dryer. A buzzer sounds from the kitchen -the vanilla cupcakes are done- and I hurriedly shove the last pile of dirties to the briefly-vacant washer, pour in detergent, set all timers and race back up.

The vanilla cupcakes are golden and smell good, yet something nags. I cast my eyes towards my shaky hands and am seized with the realization that unless I was moving so quickly I didn't notice, I've forgotten to add the critically important tablespoon of vinegar. Shit. 

These cupcakes are wartime and depression-era treats, from times when eggs and butter were rationed and people figured out how to make do with oil for fat and the chemical reaction between vinegar and baking soda for the eggs. 

Another text illumines my iPhone screen, email and Gmail chat notices are flying left and right across my laptop's face, and I accept that I literally don't have time (or frankly, the inclination) to remake these cupcakes. In the past four days alone, I've already made Oliver muffins for his class snack last Friday and a double-layer cake for his birthday party yesterday. These vanilla pucks, now the lesser counterparts to their chocolaty kin still yet to enter the oven, will have to do for his school-based birthday celebration tomorrow.

There's always frosting. Which means, double shit, that I now need to make more frosting.

Percy starts barking -have I fed him?- and where is Nutmeg? Has he returned from his most recent venture in the neighborhood wilds? I glance at the clock; it's a quarter to three, I don't have on a bra, and school pick-up starts in thirty minutes. Go.

The chocolate cakes will have to wait. I change, shove some grapes into a container for the boys' snack and head to school. A slip of paper, a lonely to-do list shoved in my car console, catches my eye. I note that the dry cleaning is way overdue, I have two essays to read for classmates, and I've not yet managed to mail three packages that I so earnestly meant to. 

Green light. Grip the wheel. Go.

Oliver is beaming as he approaches me. My hands still momentarily, as I scoop him up and kiss his warm cheeks. Never has a child been so thrilled for his birthday. I can tell that our days-long honoring of him is deeply meaningful, and I'm glad. Ol asks so little really. He is an easy child, easy to love, easy to raise, easy to celebrate. I don't mind all the cakes and cupcakes and muffins. I'm just tired.

We get in the car so he can tell me a "secwet" and he begins to climb all over like a manic monkey. I see Jack coming, beam-smiling and fully engaged in a conversation with one of his teachers. I'll come to find that they were conversing as might have Powhatan and a Settler. This role play strikes me as a cool means of learning Colonial American history, and I am again grateful that my sons attend the excellent school they do.

By the time we reach home, a helmet of peevishness has affixed itself firmly to my skull. How many times must I say, "I CAN'T look at you when I'm driving!" before the kids stop asking me to do just that? Why does Jack narrate every second as he lives it? Why does it feel that so much is asked of me so often? Another text arrives.

We pull up, and I see Nutmeg waiting patiently by the front door. He's licking his paws. Oops. I forgot to check on his whereabouts before I left, but that cat. That cat! He might very well be the smartest, wiliest of us all. 

Oliver does his thing where he takes 85 years to get out of the car. It drives me batshit crazy, but I've read all the articles. I know I'm not supposed to tell my kids to hurry any more than I have to, and so despite my discomfort at leaving him, I do. I want to go inside and deal with those chocolate cupcakes. I want to finish one damn thing.  

Jack insists that we load up Ol's new walkie-talkies with batteries, and of course doing so requires both a screwdriver and not one, but TWO, elusive 9-volts. I find everything and put him to work. Shortly thereafter, the walkies are working and Jack is buzzing through every possible channel, tweaking and testing and making more and more and more noise. He is so curious, and I love that. But he is not so easy.

Oliver begins his thank you notes and after completing 1.5 of them has a head-in-hands sob-fest because his V looks like a W. I fetch the white correction tape and mend everything as best I can. Yet the sob-fest continues because the white of the tape does not accurately enough match the white of the card. 

I want to run. My hands start to quiver again. The cupcakes overflow the pan. The frosting. And once again, I'm flying.