Why I Always Keep My Phone On: Reflections of a Cop's Kid

It was December, 1999. I was two and a half years old. My mother was on bed rest with her fourth child and my aunt was looking after us. I had my face pressed against the cold glass of the window. It was too late and my aunt was too tired. “Daddy!!” I screamed every time she tried to pull me toward my bed. Eventually she gave up and sat down on the couch.

I waited for what felt like forever.

I refused to give in to the ever growing weight of my eyelids. I wanted to hug Daddy. Finally, a light bobbed down the driveway. The old, beat up, green pickup truck sputtered to a stop. My father waded out of the truck and up to the front door. 

“DADDY!!!!!” I proclaimed at the top of my lungs. He looked at me quizzically, but hugged me anyways. 

An old picture of me and my dad

“Shouldn’t you be asleep Shannie Girl?” He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He smelled funny. I pointed to the Pooh Bear on my stomach: the subject of my favorite night shirt. He laughed. “Did you pick your own jammies today?” I smiled as big as I could and nodded. “Okay,” he resolved. “Night time.” He was sad and I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he smelled funny. 


This is the first memory I have of my father.


When I was eight years old I found out what he smelled like: ammonia. He was protecting WTO protestors in Seattle. They filled super soakers with urine and sprayed the police officers with it. He soaked his uniform in ammonia before coming home so that at least he wouldn’t smell like urine. That was the first memory I have of my father.


A lot of this life as a cop's kid has been hard. I consistently worry about my father. But ultimately, I know that he is a super hero who helps people and that is a good thing.