The kids in this neighborhood have “probs,” as big girl would say. They are a reflection of their parents, plain and simple, and that’s not a good thing. Yesterday (and many other days) they have all met in our next door neighbor’s tiny front yard and played a makeshift game of baseball. The ball is some sort of wiffle-slash-duct-tape concoction and it packs a punch.
There is entirely too little space to play next door and then they position themselves in such a way that the ball comes flying into our yard, and at our house and van, over and over. Last night, it hit the house very hard and my husband went out there to talk to some of the parents while all of the kids ran and hid (four of which were teenagers….really?) One parent didn’t answer her door, the others weren’t home. *sigh* We have already asked the kids to turn the game in another direction but they won’t listen. When the one set of parents returned home, my husband went and talked to them; the man was understanding and nice as usual, but the wife was her normal self, of which I have nothing kind to say.
Who knows what will happen next. I don’t want to be stressed out about this on account of the baby and my kids. So, I’m not. There, easy enough.