F* the Police!!

I usually don't mention what I do to strangers, but the girls at my favorite coffee stop know I work nights and stop in for a lot of caffeine late in the evening. 

The other day a young, new barista asked what I do and without thinking I said that I was a police officer.  My guard was down, I didn't assess, I figured I didn't need to worry about my safety at that moment.

She sighed.  Oh, I love the police.  I have an uncle, some friends and other family that are all police officers or deputies. 

I sighed.  Phew.  This wouldn't be awkward.  I thought.

She went on.  Sometimes it's really weird though, a lot of people my age don't like cops.  It's so strange to be at a party chanting "Fuck the Police!" with everyone and then go home and stay at a deputy's house that night with family.  I feel bad, you know?

Judging by the look on her face, I think she got the look on my face.  I said I don't understand why people say things if they don't believe them.  I said maybe it's hard to stand up to your friends.  I told her I have small children and they still like police officers.  I said it's really hard if the people you love don't have the ability to stand up for their own family, and I hope my kids can at least stand up for me someday. 

And I politely took my coffee rather than dumping it on her coffee stand. 

Where is the happy? 

It's in a shift briefing that goes long because we watch silly cop videos.

It's on a traffic stop where you stand on the side of the road and giggle because you couldn't write this stuff if you tried.

It's at a retirement party where you see someone who didn't just do it right, they did it right for decades and now they get to go reap the benefits of that work.

It's a station tour where a bunch of little scouts stare at you in awe and and all raise their hand at once as they jump up and down and grin. 

It's the prank war that leaves your entire desk wrapped in foil and gives you a stomach-ache from laughing so hard. 

It's watching your best friend get promoted and watching her daughter concentrate so hard to get that gold badge just right on her shirt. 

It's a discussion at 4am where you realize the people in that room with you would back you up on the worst day of your career and laugh with you on the best day.

It's there, and it keeps you going.  Just like the little blog where sometimes you only deposit the sad and hard because they need a place to go so you can make room for the happy when it appears. 

I hid a pair of shoes.

They were hand-me-downs.  Very cute.  My youngest already loved them, even though they didn’t really fit. 

I felt a little bad.  She has so many shoes though, and won’t even notice these are gone.

But I will notice, and I will breathe deeper once I don’t have to look at them.  I’m not ready. 

Last week I looked in a paper bag.  Two pairs of shoes and a blankie. The pattern on that blanket matches the pattern of jammies my daughter slept in last night.  It's one of the mass produced but adorable ones we all have.  It felt like a punch in the gut. 

The shoes in the bag.  One pair belonged to little feet that will never run again.  And one pair to a big sister who will probably never forget what she heard and saw that day.  A family destroyed.  A driver’s life ruined.  So many people devastated. 

I stayed away from the scene all shift so I didn’t have to see.  Another team handled it, and handled it well.   I thought I’d be fine.  But I saw that bag at the station and I looked inside and that was enough.  I came home and went in my daughter’s room and picked up those shoes and tucked them away in a closet until I can look at them again.  And I climbed into bed and my husband held me until I could breathe again.

And today I decided not to hide the jammies, because my oldest and my niece wore them too.  And you can't hide it all away.