Mama’s a crook.

It’s unfortunate, you know?

I’m a wanted woman. There may very well be posters with my face on it floating around a certain historic Georgia city.

Shortly after the finalization of the adoption of my son, I had to make the trek to our local Social Security Administration office. Have you been there? Get in line, punch your appropriate letter based on why you are there, get a ticket with your approximate wait time, and then sit—with some of the finest specimen’s society has to offer. Being that it was my first experience, and I was changing the name and social security number of my baby, I figured I would go in Alpha Mom mode.

Seriously, YOU know Alpha Mom mode. It’s when you put on something other than sweatpants and your husband’s t-shirt. It’s the Good Jeans paired with a shirt, not made of jersey knit, preferably with buttons, and in a light color. This particular shirt could possibly get dirty, and if it did, you and everyone else in three counties would definitely notice. I even found earrings. I didn’t even know I still OWNED earrings.

E63. That was my number. Under this number, there was also an approximate wait time. Unfortunately, it read “83 minutes.” Well, that foiled my plan of walking in all Alpha Mom-ish and walking out seconds later with a new name and number!

I resigned myself to sitting. Of course, the lady I sit next to wants to talk to me. A lot. My son has cerebral palsy—which wasn’t so noticeable when he was tiny. However, the feeding tube hooked up to him was very noticeable, and clearly bothered Big Momma quite a bit. I also was accompanied by 300 pounds of paperwork—every doctor record, every hospital bill, every adoption paper.  She asked—with great length—all about him. I politely ignored her for awhile, praying that either the Rapture would come or the earth would open up and eat me. Neither happened.

My mood darkened. My son screamed. He does that, you know. Screams. For no reason. All the time. Really loud. After 3 years, I’ve gotten used to it. The people in the Social Security office that day, they didn’t like it so much. I got the death stare several times. I started glaring back (My husband, he says I’m five foot of woman, seven foot of attitude. I love him).

Finally, my number was called, and I almost heard angels sing. I arrived at desk 12, to be greeted by Ms. Brilliance. If you’re not from the South, you don’t get this. Everyone who is above the age of consent is referred to as Ms. We don’t say Mrs. It’s Ms. Like mizzzzz. And, y’all gotta draaaaawl it out. Ms. Brilliance asked me for all my information, which I happily provided.

She then informed me that I didn’t have the correct information, and I would have to come back another time. What? Huh? I left. I went and gathered the other four hundred pounds of paperwork and returned. To wait. Again.

This time, Ms. Brilliance asked questions, which I happily answered. Until she told me I’d have to come back later, or make an appointment, because I needed some other paperwork. At that very moment, my life changed forever. I was no longer little mealy mouthed Heather, I was Protector-of-the-Universe-Super-Butt-Kicking-Mom-Who-Hasn’t-Slept-in-6-months! And I told her what I thought of her, her paperwork, AND the Social Security office.

Evidently, they don’t like that much.

Before you did know it, there was a security guard escorting me, my 700 pounds of paperwork, and my tube feeding baby out of the government building. Escorting me! As in he had a hold of me (by my fragile little twiggy arms) and I was fussing (er, cursing), and there were people putting me on a terrorist watch list, I’m sure. He had a gun. He told me not to return (which is when I think they put my picture on the Wanted Poster).

Unfortunately, I called the aforementioned lovable husband and told him what happened, through my sobs. He, much to my chagrin, did not worry for my very own life—instead, he laughed hysterically. He told everyone about it.  That is why, I share with you, my fellow low-ers– the story of how a good mother can get in trouble with the law.

Because, I am sure that my husband didn’t tell the story right.

This Three Day Weekend post comes to us from Heather, who writes to us from the comfort of her jail cell.   And also, you can find her at her wonderful blog, Our Incredible Journey.