I was up late last night. I was also up early. All of that was work related.

Then there was the knock on the door. I did not hear the knock on the door. I was in bed, trying to sleep. Natalie was up. So were the boys.

The knock on the door, much to Natalie’s surprise, was a Virginia Beach Police officer. It seems there was some sort of call placed and through some strange set of circumstances, the police were sent to our address.

Here it is, about seven o’clock, and Natalie is just getting her coffee worked out, still in her PJ’s and house coat, and there is a police officer knocking at the door. She answers the door, and it seems that the police officer is a little confused as to why Natalie is not letting him in right away. Why is she just standing there trying to understand why there is a police officer knocking at her door at seven o’clock in the morning on a Sunday.

The radio provides an answer. They have the address of the call wrong. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Now we have the police officers getting back into their car to go up the street to see whomever it was that was expecting them at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning.

And then it happens.

There is another knock at the door. This knock is much lighter than the police officer who thought he was responding to who knows what at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. Natalie believes that this is one of the neighborhood kids, possibly sent over by one of their parents, to see what is going on that we had police at our house at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning and maybe play with our kids. At least that was what she thought till she saw the police car had not left yet. It had moved, but it had not left yet. The police officers are still milling about (all two of them?) in our yard and are still knocking on what we found out was the wrong door.

“Um, miss,” the officer says with a smirk on his face, that reminds Natalie of my father.


“Sorry about your mailbox. Seems we hit it trying to turn our car around and drive up the street to the people who did call us because they needed a police officer at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning.”

“Please, Mr. Virginia Beach police officer, please, just go away. I’m sure someone else needs you or you wouldn’t be here at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, running over innocent mail boxes with misguided police cars, after knocking on wrong doors.”

Natalie closes the door, and then comes to wake me up.

Did I mention that I was up late last night and I was also up early? Something work related.

Now I have to go. Someone is out back and they are not supposed to be playing with the hose. I hope I do not have the put someone to bed. It’s not yet 2:30 on a Sunday afternoon.

At the very least, Natalie is going to have a problem with me posting this story. And, yes, most of it is true.