” I want juice,” Baby C demanded.
“What do you say?” I replied.
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!” he responded with a level of cuteness that should be illegal.
“Okay, I’ll go get you some juice.”
I sauntered into the kitchen to fetch him some juice. I had to wash a sippy cup for him since none were clean, so it took me a bit longer than I would have liked to retrieve his juice, but after a couple of minutes I had a full cup of apple juice for him.
I walked back into the living room where Baby C sat on the couch with my phone in his hand. “I talkin’, Daddy!”
I wasn’t immediately worried about this. I had my phone locked and I figured he was just pretending. As I drew closer to him, however, a quick glimpse at the screen on my phone revealed that a call had been placed. I snatched the phone from his grasp to get a closer look at the screen. At the top of the screen it read “ICE (In Case of Emergency) and had a list of one number on the screen: 911.
I immediately started mashing the portion of the screen where the disconnect button was. For some reason it took a handful of seconds for the call to disconnect. I then unlocked the phone so I could see if the call had actually connected. I navigated to the call history, which to my relief showed no successful calls to 911. I released the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and then took my phone across the room and placed it on my desk where he (I hoped) couldn’t reach it.
I put in a Bubble Guppies DVD for Baby C to watch and I laid down on the couch because tired. We had almost made it through an entire episode of little merchildren doing things that should be impossible underwater (and him jumping up and down on my back) when a cacophonous knock erupted from my front door.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
I knew who was at the door. Somehow I just knew. Family or friends wouldn’t pound on my door like that. Honestly, most of them would have tried to just walk right in.
I gently removed Baby C from my back and lifted myself from the couch. I strode over to the door, unlocked it, opened it, and, to no surprise, found a uniformed police officer standing on my door step.
“Sir, we’ve received numerous calls to 911 from this area tonight. Do you happen to know anything about that? Sounds it was just a kid playing on the phone.”
I glanced over to my sweet Baby C, who was hanging over the armrest of the couch, staring at the officer with his big blue innocent eyes. I then looked back to the officer and sheepishly admitted, “That was probably my kid. He got a hold of my phone when I was getting him some juice in the kitchen.”
“Is everything alright here?”
“Yes, everything is fine.”
“Can I see your ID, sir?”
I handed the officer my ID and he scribbled down some information from it. I was waiting for a citation from him since I hadn’t updated my address, but he just handed my ID back to me and asked again, “You’re sure everything is okay here?”
“Yes, everything is fine,” I assured him. I then apologized to him for wasting his time.
“Okay. If there’s anything else we can do for you don’t hesitate to call.”
With that, he departed.
Since then, my phone has been safely out of Baby C’s reach. I’m also expecting a letter in the mail charging me for a false 911 call, because I have nothing better to spend my money on.
That kid is lucky I love him.