I am not myself.

I am not a person who lives inside four walls, who is at all afraid in life – of, really, anything.
I am a person who likes to leave her front door open when she’s at home, if the weather is nice. I wave at my neighbors as they walk their dogs. I am a gadabout, a social butterfly, and, apparently, an overly trusting sort. I am, as it were, a cup-half-full sort of annoyingly positive person, who cannot abide conspiracy theorists, naysayers, door lockers, and privacy addicts. I’m a blogger, for crying out loud.

There was a time when I was guilty of leaving my house or car unlocked. Because I was A) Lazy, B) ADD, and C) generally trusting that nothing bad would ever befall me.
After the baby came, I got more careful. Having a child darkened my world in some ways. I cannot throw the same caution to the wind that I once could. I started double checking the locks when I left the house or went to sleep at night. I cannot even discuss the terror I feel when I think of someone or something dangerous encroaching upon my perfect, innocent, ever-smiling infant. I can’t watch movies where there is child abuse or a sick baby.

I hope that someday I’ll regain my thicker skin. Because of the baby, I am made of onion paper.

Which made it all the worse when, despite my ramped up efforts at security and safety, we were burgled last week.

They took our electronics and all of my jewelry, save what was on my body. Thank the baby Jesus, no one was home. It had to be someone who knew something about us, who knew we’d gotten some choice new stuff for Christmas, who knew I left for work at the same dreadfully early hour every morning. Because they struck just moments after I pulled out of the drive. I know this because my neighbor saw the footprints in the snow in my back yard when he made his morning coffee in the wee small hours, and found them curious. He figured a kid had gone back there, unable to resist a walk through our mammoth snow drift.

I’m not very attached to stuff. I feel bad for my husband who had just gotten his new Wii and all those games for Christmas, and I feel bad that some of my “heirloom” jewelry is gone. But I feel worst that my peace of mind is gone. My breezy, happy-go-lucky attitude has vanished. When I take a bath, I take the baby in with me and lock us in the bathroom. We had an alarm installed in our house, and I feel like a caged animal because I cannot get up to make a bottle at night or walk out onto the front patio to get the paper without disarming the “system”. I now have deadbolts on all my doors, and ADT stickers in all my windows.

I try to force myself to be benevolent, to think, “This person must have been desperate. The robbers must have needed this stuff more than I do.” I have insurance that will, hopefully, cover it all, or most of it. But I’m having a hard time maintaining such thoughts. Mostly, I feel alternately furious and terrified that it will happen again, this time when we’re home.

The person who walks a dog down the street in front of my house is no longer my neighbor, but instead is now a suspect. I look warily at passersby through my slanted blinds, cursing in my head. I don’t let the baby sleep in his crib anymore because it is too far away from me at night. I want him within arm’s reach at every minute.

At my best moments, I am sure that with time, I’ll heal and begin to feel normal, trusting, not violated, again. At my worst, I want to run away, buy a house in a gated community, and never come out again.

Here’s my recipe, then, with apologies to those who were looking for a zesty new soup to try this week.

Recipe for a safe home and sane head:

1 New deadbolt for each door to your house
New keys for all the locks in your house
1 alarm system with remote sensing
1 new-to-you, medium-sized dog with a large bark
Several gallons of courage
1 hearty portion of personal mettle
A never-ending supply of hope
Directions: Mix together, and wait for results.