Once, sometime during my dad's 5 month stint at Stanford for a bone marrow transplant, our house alarm went off in the middle of the night. I ran into my parents' room. My mom picked up the phone, forgot that our alarm used the phone line to call the police, and panicked. "They've cut the phone lines! Go get your brothers!" Now let's just ignore the fact that she could have been sending me into the arms of a burglar. I ran and got my brothers. Then we stood on the little porch outside my mom's room and yelled for our neighbors. About 3 minutes later Mr. Mathis (think large, burly man w/ a red face) showed up at our front door--with a SHOT GUN.
Never mind that Mr. Mathis had a serious drinking problem. Never mind that I'm all for gun control. I don't sleep as well when Andrew's out of town. Lately it has been so bad I find myself watching Wings at 3am because I can't get back to sleep after getting up to use the bathroom (ahh, pregnancy). And I start calculating how I'd get my girls out of the house in case of an emergency. And I start hearing things. And I get up and double check that I locked the doors. And I wish I had a Mr. Mathis living next door--just in case.
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