The day my child called the police

Anna Hughes - 6 Apr 15

It was an interesting end to the week. It is Eclipse Day, it is early, the kids have eaten breakfast. The baby is eating Shreddies off the floor while the three year old repeatedly shouts ‘OHH MYY GOD!!’ before eagerly awaiting a reaction.

There is a loud knock at the front door. It’s the police. Two officers in total and they invite themselves in. They know our names. My initial thought: ‘They must be here to warn us about the dangers of looking at the sun during the eclipse’. But, upon realising the absurdity of this idea (what is WRONG with me?), the worry sets in. Fuck, actually. What’s about to happen?

Turns out my 1 year old has called them. Of course she has. During the call, babbling was heard, followed by lots of crying. So they rushed over. The baby in question clutches my husbands leg as she looks on, amused, sporting a small bump on her head which must have occurred during her phone call. Her phone call to the police.

‘I think we have found our little suspect’, the officer says. He chuckles. We make our apologies and say our goodbyes. I’m amazed we didn’t get more of a bollocking from them. They must get calls like this all the time. We learn that you don’t even need to dial the numbers 999 to get them on the other end. Just smacking random keys a few times will do it. We enter the front room to discover the phone is off the hook. The police still on the line. We hang up. Said phone is now unplugged.

It’s quite something, calling the police and have them turn up at your house. Does this count as a milestone? Does it go in the red book? Eats solids – tick. Takes first steps – tick. Calls police…. Should she receive some sort of certificate? I wonder if she’s got a little record now down at the station. They didn’t take prints which is reassuring.

I hope it’s not a sign of things to come. Maybe we shouldn’t remind her of this until we’re certain that she’s not going to be the type to get into trouble with the cops. I don’t want to give her any ideas.

From here, I am naturally led to reminisce about my own teenage years. This is made very easy by digging out the old diary. The diary which I haven’t yet burned. I see it as my guide, my manual, my insight into a teenage brain. Surely a massive bonus when destined to have not one but TWO teenage girls living in my home (Jesus Christ).

The level of cringe that occurs during the reading of said diary is vomit inducing. The poems. The poems about boys. Because when you get dumped, you write a poem. Or worse, a 6 page handwritten letter to boy(s) in question. The painfully detailed descriptions of the fondlings. The smoking, the drinking, the tears, the drama. I would go on but I’m too busy throwing up.

A large part of that nausea comes from fear. Fear that my girls will follow in my teenage footsteps and make the same mistakes I made. And they’re probably not going to tell me about it, about the boys, the parties, the dramas. That’s the worst bit. And even if they did tell me about that stuff, they’re not going to listen to my advice. They’re going to assume I have no idea what I’m talking about.

No longer will I be a celebrity in my own home. No longer will I get a cheer, a smile, a loving and grateful embrace when I walk into the room. No, they will be too busy stubbing their fags out on their bedroom windowsill to the sound of Shakespeare’s Sister while eating Monster Munch before grunting at me on their way to the undoubtedly empty fridge. I know the drill.

But there I will stand, diary in hand, taking it all on the chin. ‘That’s how down with the kids I am’ I’ll say. Because I was one once and here’s my evidence! *Smugly waves diary in air.

My 1 year old however, will have to knock this ‘phoning police’ game on the head, because I have no experience in that area. There are no police dramas in the diary to refer back to for guidance. Not really. There was the odd chase through the park on a Friday night, the occasional questioning about events leading to various stomachs being pumped. Nothing big. My worst crime was the poem entitled, ‘My Bleeding Heart’ (1996). So hopefully this personal lack of major police drama is in some way hereditary, and that will be the end of it.

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Anna Hughes

Bristol based writer and mother of 2 small people aged 2 and 4. Regular finder of banana in her hair and raisins in her shoes. Follow if you fancy an honest but (hopefully) smirk inducing account of real life mothering. No frump, no fluff, just the (occasionally harsh) truth. Tweet the Author: @bananainmyhair

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