The Crazy Lady in My Neighborhood

There is one wacky lady in my neighborhood.

Me.

I spent the end of last week in a sort of haze of sickness.  I didn't feel well.  I occasionally rose from my sick bed to enter the human race.

Then I'd go back to bed.

Saturday afternoon I took a long deep nap.  I woke up and was sitting in my green chair in the living room, recovering from the deepness of the nap, when there was a tentative knock at the door.

It was a little neighbor boy, Jack (name changed).  Before Mark answered the door,  I said, "You have to play outside."

They went outside but not before I heard taunts from across the street.  There are boys in our neighborhood that are troubled.  And they're trouble.  They're brothers (names omitted but if you live in these parts you know who I'm talking about).  They have a chaotic home and we know for a fact their dad has taught them to fight with their fists.  Mark and Gavin, sturdy Campbell's Soup sort of boys, have been decidedly taught not to fight.  (We're trying.) It doesn't always work.

Friday Mark got slapped by one of these boys but he came home without fighting.

I was proud of him for keeping his fiery little self in check.

Saturday two of them (and another of their friends--we have a surplus of little boys around here) were outside on their bikes, waiting for Mark and Jack who is older but gentle and meek.  He's a target to boys looking for someone weaker.

"Hey," I heard them yell, calling him by name.  "Where's your ma-ma?"  "Hey, your zipper is down."

I propelled myself a little more upright and looked out the window.  Mark and Jack were standing straight.  Taller than their tormentors, I saw Mark indicate to his friend that they walk away.  I saw Mark stand a bit in front of Jack, I saw him stick out his chest a little in the instinctual way of boys everywhere when they're trying to look tough.  One of the little bullies, in his kind of screechy, kind of sad voice, said, "Hey, you have something on your shirt," and he did the classic point to the shirt and flick the face move to Jack.

That's when something snapped inside me.  I dragged myself to the door.  I was in pajamas, wild hair.  I opened the door, "Hey!" I yelled across the street.

Mark gave me sort of a salute and led Jack away.  "She'll take care of it," I heard him say, "And she's 38."  (Mark's younger than all of these boys, I guess it was nice to have a really old person on the scene.)

"Come here!" I yelled again.  And surprisingly, the lad complied.  This is a boy that's been in my house many times.  I've intervened in fights before.  I've made Mark be nice to this boy.  I've given this boy many many otter pops.  He came over to my driveway, at the bidding of a deranged lady (me).

I said, "Those boys have been taught not to fight.  They are both bigger and stronger than you but they are not. Supposed. To. Fight.  It is not OK with me to have you hit them.  Do you understand me?"

I don't know, maybe Jack isn't stronger.  But I wanted them to know.  We are doing all we can to civilize Mark.  To gentle him.  To convince each other that no, we should not let Mark just wallop them and get it over with.  You had better watch it!

I don't know if he understood or not.  He nodded.  He rode his bike away.

I went upstairs and told Braeden maybe I was crazy.  I had just yelled at a nine year old.

I probably wouldn't have reacted as strongly if Mark had been the target.  I probably would have just called him inside before things escalated.  (Usually once all the hot heads have been cooled, everything turns out OK.) But I can't handle seeing someone so mild and tender being bullied.

Some people have "No Soliciting" signs on their door.  Some people have "Please remove your shoes."

I'm going to get my own sign.  "No being mean to defenseless little boys.  An unhinged woman in pajamas will fly at you in a fit of rage."

You've been warned.