More adventures in DC

Last weekend I stayed at No. 1 son's apartment during a whirlwind "Mom this really would be the most convenient weekend for you to come down and help me set up my apartment" trip to Washington, DC, on behalf of the College Junior -- also known as No. 2 son.

Needless to say, my credit card was well-used, I was grateful No. 1 was available to help with the unloading (this photo was taken after the job was completed) and I was only moderately concerned about being decapitated by a loose baking pan if forced to stop suddenly while piloting the packed Taurus some 500 miles down traffic-jammed I-95.

I was slightly more apprehensive about my first experience lodging with one of my children in his own domain, but hoped it would offer the rare opportunity for Mother-Son bonding without the use of a credit card. (Husband No. 1 managed to avoid the dreaded DC trek because there wasn't any room for him in the car.)

I must say that spotting the handcuffs in No. 1 son's bedroom didn't shock me as much as it might have if he weren't a police officer. The gun safes didn't bother me much, either. (As noted previously, I spend a lot of time in the Land of Denial). But it's been a long time since I've slept on a mattress on the floor -- and this trip reminded me why. It also took a great deal of restraint to not do any straightening of his bedroom. (Unfortunately he seems to have inherited -- and exceeded -- his mother's belief that neatness is for people too lazy to look for things).

Although I knew enough to pack my own towel and facecloth, it didn't occur to me that neither my son nor his cop roommate -- both of whom have closely shaved heads -- might not possess a hairdryer. As a result, I spent the weekend apologizing to friends and strangers about my hair. For a while, I also was concerned I might have to apologize for my scent because guys who use that manly smelling body wash stuff apparently see no need to own bar soap. When I mentioned this, No. 1 son's response was: "You expected me to go out and buy soap for you?"

Hmmm. I considered whether to remind him of all the things I've gone out and bought for HIM over the years -- or even the occasions I battled other crazy parents in Toys R Us to obtain a coveted action figure. But since he was cranky after just five hours of sleep in 48 hours, I opted instead to use the sink-side "Shea butter" pump soap (and can now report they could advertise it as offering a less masculine odor than Axe body wash).

Apparently No. 1 also saw no need to go out and buy coffee, despite his mother's well-known habits in that area, nor anything that could masquerade as breakfast. It seems that guys who work until midnight or 4 a.m. don't eat regular breakfast food at the end of their sleep cycles.

Their schedules also made for interesting logistics. The plan seemed so logical beforehand: No. 1 would leave for work at 7:30 p.m., I would sleep in his bed and be up by the time he returned from work the next morning so I could let him in (the keys couldn't be duplicated) to get his rest. The roommate would still be asleep, having returned after midnight. The flaw in the plan was I didn't realize that my son actually gets off work at 4 a.m. When he saw the shock on my face, he graciously agreed to go to the gym or finish his paperwork so he would not return until my normal 6 a.m. waking time. When he hadn't showed by 6:30 a.m., I called his cell phone and was advised he didn't know when he'd be returning as they'd arrested some guys with guns and would be going to court soon. This is the kind of reality that makes it difficult to fall back to sleep, I assure you.

Also difficult was ignoring the chaos in an apartment shared by two men who obviously don't spend a lot of time thinking about housekeeping judging by the fact that some of the items that hadn't been put away when I first saw the apartment in May were still laying out three months later. I couldn't help noting, however, that nothing blocked the view of the big screen TV.

I've decided I probably ought to rethink my lodging arrangements for future solo trips to DC. Given that No. 2 son's place also has beds on the floor -- combined with the slightly seedy feel of a college apartment (plus two roommates) -- his new home isn't such a good option, either.

Perhaps future mother-son bonding should occur at someplace like the Hilton -- where I hear they offer soap, hair dryers, coffee, and even beds on box springs.

Gun... Control?

I am giving serious thought to buying a gun. As a woman who has marched for gun control and who does her best to live in the Land of Denial about the piece of metal her son carries to work every night, this is a radical shift in attitude.

OK, it won't be a really bad gun. Maybe just an airgun or a squirt gun. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And what is made me so desperate? This little varmint who keeps raiding my "squirrel-proof" bird feeder (notice how full his pouches are). In order to be able to view the feeder from the house, we attached it to the deck, which also has become home to the first tomato and sunflower plants ever owned by Husband No. 1, now known as Farmer Frank.

I think my neighbors are beginning to question my sanity after hearing me repeatedly yell "Get off of there!" and seeing me run out onto the deck waving a broom. This seems to have little effect on the chipmunks and squirrels, however. So I did some research on the Internet and although adding lots of red pepper to the birdseed has seemed to keep away most of the squirrels, I just learned that the pepper that keeps me sneezing for days apparently doesn't bother chipmunks due to their fur-lined pouches.

I was complaining about this wildlife development during a weekend telephone conversation with No. 1 son when he asked: "How do you know it's the same chipmunk?"

"Because he's taunting me," I replied. "I fill the bird feeder and the damn thing keeps jumping on it and draining it before the day is over."

"How can you be sure it's just one chipmunk?" he persisted.

"Stop talking like a cop. I've got evidence," I grumbled as I continued my surveillance of the deck through the glass doors. "Dammit," I suddenly yelled. "There ARE two of them."

No. 1 son then wondered why Buddy the dog wasn't enough to frighten the creatures away from the bird feeder so close to the house. "Are you kidding? That dog barely even woofs at them anymore," I said. "No one would ever mistake Buddy for an attack dog. But he does seem to bark if the wind changes direction," I added.

No. 1 son then allowed as how a BB shot or an air pellet in a chipmunk's butt might do the trick. As I considered this option, I saw the little critters scurrying toward the "crops" and alerted Husband No. 1, who was on the extension. "They're stealing your tomatoes!" I yelled.

Husband No. 1, normally so laid-back that some people think he must be from California instead of Kansas, erupted. "That's it. We're getting a .357 Magnum."

No. 1 son exploded in laughter. "The gun will be bigger than the chipmunk," he wisely noted.

"I don't care," proclaimed the man who once led peace marches. "We're talking tomatoes now. This is war."

So, does anyone have any ideas on how we can at least win the battle of the chipmunks -- short of purchasing heavy artillery?

Welcome to the Land of Denial

At what age is a child too old to be ordered home by his mother?

That question has been nagging me since a recent conversation with No. 1 Son, now just a few months shy of Police Academy graduation. (Again, I blame myself for this. If I had let him have a toy gun as a child, we might not be having discussi0ns that make me incredibly grateful for my hairdresser and the miracles of hair dye.)

Intellectually, I know he is at the academy to learn how to become a big city police officer. But my stomach ache first began when he announced he couldn't train on the street until he got his bulletproof vest, which had to be custom made. I told myself: That’s good. They’re going to make sure he’s safe. In the meantime, no one is shooting at him and he’s getting paid.

The Kevlar vest arrived. He now wears it as part of his daily uniform so it will become as comfortable and routine as wearing underwear. It's also led to training opportunities outside the academy. One of the first calls he observed was a domestic incident and when someone smelled PCP, dozens of squad cars and a helicopter descended on the scene. Very exciting. And, no one was shooting at him.

Last week, he was issued his gun, a Glock, that’s “mine until I leave the force or shoot someone.”

Shoot someone? My days in the Land of Denial (LOD is a very happy place, by the way) did not include the possibility that he might actually have to shoot someone ELSE to “stop a threat” (they don't say "shoot to kill"). I had briefly considered that people might shoot at HIM, but then I thought about that specially made protective vest and all the money that's being spent on training to keep him safe. All was well in the LOD -- until the “shoot someone” comment.

I gulped. “Well, I hope that never happens.” It was time to change the subject. “So, what comes next in your training?” High-speed driving, he replied. Hmm. That shouldn’t be much of a problem given his driving record with the State of New Hampshire. OK, I can deal with that.

“But we still have to get hit with the asp, be tasered and go in the gas chamber.”

Asp and taser I'd heard before. But gas chamber? Double gulps. Big-time stomach pain. When I found my voice again, I said, “Get in the car and come home.” He laughed. Then I asked why he had to go into a gas chamber.

“We have to be pepper-sprayed.”

The barricades around the LOD were crumbling. “Why?”

“We have to be pepper-sprayed, tasered and hit with the asp so we know what it’s like and we’ll be less likely to use them unless we really have to.”

“Pack up your stuff. I’m coming to get you. I can be there by morning.”

He laughed again. But I wasn't joking. Then I thought about it. I suppose any policeman risking encounters with armed gang-bangers, psychotic criminals or trigger-happy idiots isn’t afraid of a little pepper spray.

It’ll be just a little, right?

Land of Denial, here I come – and this time, I think I’ll stay a while.

UPDATES ON PREVIOUS BLOGS: I'm happy to report Buddy the Dog seems to be recovering well and appreciated all the emails, calls, treats and get well cards. Also, No. 2 son agreed to take two anthropology courses first to see if he should change his major and we did eat Easter dinner on paper plates at No. 1 son's apartment in a really fun experience we'll laugh about for years.