An Open Letter to My Childless Neighbors

Dear neighbors who thought they were being oh-so-clever by calling the police because my baby was in meltdown mode at 2AM,

I have done everything possible for the past 3.5 months to keep the noise level to a minimum in our apartment. In fact, when Clark fusses past the hour of 9PM, I forgo my sleep training methods and do whatever works to get him to sleep. I’ve even buckled him into his carseat and taken a drive around the block just so you, neighbor, can get your beautiful, childless 8-hours of rest.

I do this because I, too, was without children once (in fact, I was without screaming, tiny human a mere 3.5 months ago). I understand you all have jobs. So does my husband. Also, once in a while, I like to sleep, too! So, my work is not entirely philanthropic. But it’s close, people. It’s close.

So, after an hour of meltdown mode, I really appreciate the loud bangs on my door, a search of my apartment, and an interrogation of my husband (in his boxers) and me (braless) on our couch about domestic violence.  It was then I realized that when you, neighbor dearest, placed the “911 call”, you must have made up some very creative, convincing story about what was really going on. Because, as the officers laughed at my now happy, wide awake, giggly baby, they told me there’s no way in hell they would respond to a call about a crying baby disturbing your sleep. In fact, two out of three of the police officers had infants of their own, lived in apartments, and were no strangers to childless neighbors voicing their complaints.

Now, I see how being so considerate has backfired.  I realize you might have been geniunely concerned, because I am such a fabulous neighbor that it’s quite possible you’ve never heard Clark scream that loud before – or ever at all. But that ends now.

I will no longer be taking extreme measures to comfort my son. Of course, I’ll still hold him, feed him, and attend to his each and every need. But the midnight car rides are a thing of the past. If Clark’s going to fuss, he’s going to fuss in this very apartment. Because he lives here. I live here. My husband lives here. And we pay the same rent that you do. Also, next time you have a get-together, please don’t be alarmed when the police knock on your door. Because when it comes to storytelling, ladies and gentlemen, I am a professional.

Sincerely,

That mom with the crying baby