Go the f%$k to jail: A rerun

The kids are a little older now, but I still have a strong aversion to people setting off minor explosives after the dear little night owls’ bedtime.


In the wee hours of Independence Day, I found myself waging a tiny war on behalf of people everywhere who just can’t keep their effing kids in their effing toddler beds.

After an explosion of very professional-sounding fireworks at the end of our block at 12:30 a.m., I put on my imaginary hair curlers, wielding a very big pretend rolling pin, and ducked out to my stoop to start screaming.

I wanted blood.

“You’re waking up my kids!!!!”

Teenage giggling wafted up the block.

“I’m calling the cops.”

Now, it was massive gales of laughter. All at my expense.

In the middle, I heard a male middle-aged voice bellow at them, “You better cut that out!”

They must be laughing at him, right? Or me?! Not me!

Did they think it was funny that I would even think the cops would come out to stop fireworks on the Fourth of July?

That’s when I realized, a half-hour later, when I cooled off and no longer thought the perps might ransack our home, that what I had said was actually a wee bit, um, totally preposterous.

All together now: “You’re waking up my kids! I’m calling the cops.”

Ah, if only I could do so.

Imagine the luxury of a 911 call to stop the very, very loud preschooler; the dude with the leaf blower; relatives and in-laws who call after 9; and my husband when he presses the fridge’s ice button one too many times after hours.

But, alas, I’m on my own. My kids are not ever going to stay asleep all night, and I can’t even pin the blame on those teenagers.

But maybe I could ask them to baby-sit. –Jillian O’Connor