Somebody broke into our house early this morning. While we were upstairs. Sleeping.
When I was taking the baby downstairs this morning to get him some breakfast, I noticed that the light looked strange. Then I turned the corner and realized that the overhead light in the living room was on, which is odd because we normally just use a lamp in that room. When I finally got into the living room, I knew right away that something was wrong. The window was open. The ashtray from our front porch was sitting on the couch. The doors to our TV stand were open. It took me a second to figure out that my laptop and two big boxes of DVDs were gone.
I freaked out. Seriously. I’ve never been burglarized before, other than having my bike stolen when I lived in Richmond and was out of town. Oh and my tips were stolen from my waitressing apron once. Ugh, this is dredging up bad memories. But anyway, the thought that someone had been in our house, the house where my baby sleeps, just threw me over the edge. I screamed for the husband and we rushed around for a few minutes trying to get a handle on the situation. The baby was freaked out but mostly because we were and was most concerned that some of his DVDs were stolen. The trauma of the event did not have any effect on his verbal abilities as he continued to talk and talk and ask questions even in the midst of something like this. Heh.
Considering what they took, and the fact that they just grabbed light stuff that can be resold or pawned easily, we’re guessing it was just some desperate crackhead and that we’re not in any real danger. But we’re obviously still very upset and angry and freaked out. I mean, someone broke into our house while we were asleep upstairs. That shit’s not cool.
I took the baby to the bus stop and while we were waiting he said, “When we came downstairs and saw that someone broke in, I thought you were gonna barf.” “I did, too,” I told him.