Daughter Or Crook

Robbers or my daughter, I can’t tell the difference. A few years ago, we had burglars who came and stole from our house. I was the first one on the scene, and I will never forget the destruction I saw or the dismay I felt at walking in and seeing my house turned upside down. It is said that " lightening never strikes twice, " and statistically speaking, I know that we should never be robbed again. But yesterday, I walked in my house, and I felt as though I was revisiting that crime scene again.

Opening the front door revealed, instead of the oasis of peace I expected, a vista of untold devastation. Couch cushions were toppled on food stained floors, which was smothered with a combination of mushy cookies and half-chewed cheerios, and slobbered covered magazines were lying on hand ripped documents. My breath caught in my throat, my mind thinking that my eyes must be playing tricks with the light. I decided to fully brave the tempest of the house. My precious DVD’s cast out as if they were on Survivor. Walls were etched in red like scars or open wounds. Clothes that were once in fine ordered piles were now flung about the room. In short, it looked like Genghis Kahn and Attila the Hun had spent the afternoon pillaging my living room. I soldiered on, through the labyrinth of living room toys, across the goblin baby book city, to get to the toddler queen. As she slept strung-out on the sofa chair I cleaned and replaced the items in the house thinking all the while, "Huh, tomorrow's just another offense."