Kate Haas: 9-1-1
9-1-1 “You belong in the Bad Mama Jail,” declared my four-year-old, late one afternoon as I was cooking dinner. “With no snacks!” I snorted as Nate stomped out of the kitchen. If denying pretzels before supper was a criminal offense, I was facing the slammer for sure. Giggles from the living room reassured me. My son was playing happily with his friend, Zachary. He’ll get over it, I thought. Fifteen minutes later, a knock interrupted my dinner preparations. Opening the door, I gazed in consternation at the burly police officer outside. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said grimly. “Is everything all right?” “Uh…yes?” I get nervous when people in uniform call me “ma’am.” “We received a 9-1-1 call from this address. Sounded like kids, but we couldn’t get through to check. They must’ve left the phone off the hook.” “Oh, my gosh - I’m so sorry - I had no idea,” I stammered, mortified. “It happens,” the cop assured me. “But you should tell your kids not to play with 911.” My eyes narrowed. That little stinker. He’d actually called the law on me! “Why don’t you tell them yourself?” I suggested, calling the kids to the front door. This would show the little pipsqueak. Zachary’s face lit up at the sight of a real, live police officer. Nate gave one wary glance, cast his eyes to the floor, and refused to budge during the ensuing lecture. It took no Sherlock Holmes to detect the culprit in this shenanigan. About the Columnist |
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