Child Protective Services

In order to make an attempt at fitting into our new, pristine neighborhood, I joined the Homeowner’s Association Board. Actually, the elderly neighborhood maven who lives across the street roped me into it. You know, the older lady in the neighborhood who knows everybody’s business, and what she doesn’t know, she isn’t afraid to ask, because she’s old. I love those kinds of people, and I aspire to be that ballsy someday.

During the latest HOA meeting, I was informed that a sex offender lived near our neighborhood. After the meeting, I immediately went to the computer and with the power of the almighty internet was able to find out where he lived, what he looked like, and the nature of the crime he had been convicted. Prior to having kids, I thought child molesters were pieces of shit, but now that I have a little girl of my own I have way more of a “shoot to kill” attitude. This bastard is a Level 3, which means he doesn’t think there is anything wrong with molesting kids and is extremely likely to re-offend. Nice security blanket, eh. Our neighborhood is located right behind a school, so if one was on the prowl for an underage fling, living near a school is like taking up residence at the Neverland Ranch.

I find it so strange to be instantly and aggressively affected by this news, since in my younger days I lived in an apartment at the bottom of Queen Anne, two blocks away from where a guy was stabbed to death over a drug deal gone bad. I even remember one night where a homeless guy on crack chased me while trying to grab my arm. I managed to make it to my building and punch the code in as he was on my heels yelling at me to “get back here or I’ll kill you.” My conclusion is that when you are unattached and single, you can handle anything, but when you have kids you are officially the custodian of a being that you have to bring into adulthood safely and in tact.

This exasperation and burning hatred of this sex offender extends beyond my own child. I find myself willing to duct tape him to a chair and beat him with a rubber hose over the thought of him touching any of the kids in my neighborhood. I don’t know most of the kids who live near me, and I don’t really fit into the vibe of this area, but I see them riding their bikes and my one wish is that they will be able to enjoy their childhood without some asshole getting his kicks by ruining their lives. They say when you become a parent you tend to see every child as if they were your own, and I think in many ways that’s true, especially when it comes to something tragic. What parent didn’t wince and get a sick feeling in their stomach when that guy kidnapped those two kids in Idaho after killing their family?

I am not a violent person, despite the above rubber hose reference, and I have always worked to champion human rights, after all I was a Jew who grew up in Idaho. However, I find myself not giving a damn about his privacy or his rights, since he so callously decided that his young victim didn’t need their childhood. I have no problem spreading his picture all over the neighborhood website, and would have even less of a problem standing on my porch with my arms folded watching him if he chose to walk down my street.

For now, I, and the rest of the neighborhood parents, stay on a low level of alert giving strangers a second look when we walk our children to the park. The police don’t have to worry about me turning into some crazy vigilante, because I have every confidence that they are keeping a very good eye on him. After all, this is a fairly affluent neighborhood, surrounded by a school and a more affluent neighborhood, and the police would be facing one hell of a shit storm if this guy grabbed a kid from this area.

I consider myself fortunate, because out of this huge area with all of these people, I only have to worry about one guy. Sure sex offenders have access to cars, and usually peruse schools, but one is probably more likely to prowl an area they know. This is one of the major reasons I live in Suburbia. For all its faults, and believe me, there are so many, Suburbia does provide a safety net that the city can’t accommodate. At this point in my life, I would love to be in Queen Anne again, but I can’t imagine trying to raise my child in the city. In the vicinity of my old apartment, there are four Level Three sex offenders, and 70 without valid addresses, which means they’re homeless and could be anywhere in the city. I know there are a lot of families who raise kids in the city, and do it quite successfully, but I’m a neurotic Jewish mother with a tendency to jump to conclusions and a knack for wanting to punch anyone in the face who lays a hand on my kid.

As I email the picture of the sex offender around to parents in the neighborhood, I am grateful for only having to keep up with one sick fuck. Nestled in a Suburbia I find mostly disturbing, I am reminded of why I endure this place as my daughter dances carefree, happy, and completely unharmed to Blue’s Clues.