Entitled Neighbor Banned My Kids from Playing Outside Because They Break Her Rules – I Went to War for My Kids

If someone made your children cry just for being kids, how would you respond? When my kids were barred from the playground by their neighbor for “excessive laughter,” I knew that diplomacy was out of the question. Our entire community learned the lesson of not messing with a mother from what transpired next.

It was like winning the lotto when we moved to Silver Springs. Dave and I had saved every last cent for our dream home’s down payment. The backyard was three times larger than the patio of our last residence. Finally, there was room for Simon’s soccer ball, and tiny Abby could run around without me telling him to “be careful.”

With her pigtails bouncing, Abby said, “Mom, look how fast I can run!” as she dashed across the lawn.

I yelled back, “I see you, baby girl,” as I opened another kitchen supply package.

The initial days were enchanted. From their driveways, the neighbors waved. The street was quiet, and children rode their bikes. Our cramped two-bedroom apartment, where we were constantly surrounded by sirens, was all we could have ever imagined.

But when it comes to things that look too good to be true, you know what they say.

“Kathy, come look at this!” Dave said one morning as he stood at our front door wearing the most peculiar look.

I approached and used a dish towel to wipe my hands. There was a white envelope, secured with one piece of Scotch Tape to our front door. Across it, in flawless cursive script, was my name.

I ripped it open and asked, “What is it?”

It contained a typewritten, polished-looking document. “NEIGHBORHOOD RULES” was written at the top in bold characters.

When you read something so ridiculous, did you ever have to read it twice to be sure your eyes weren’t deceiving you? My reaction upon seeing our neighbor Melissa’s list was precisely that.

I said, “Dave, listen to this,” my voice growing louder with each absurd regulation. “Rule number one: No child may laugh louder than 60 decibels.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dave said.

“Number two: Running on the grass is forbidden. It’s for looking at, not stepping on.” I glanced up at him. “Our grass. The grass we’re paying a mortgage on.”

Dave’s mouth fell open. “Keep going.”

I could feel my blood pressure rising as I read, “Number three: No balls, frisbees, or toys larger than 8 inches allowed in common areas.” “Number four: Children must NOT use sidewalk chalk unless it’s pastel colors approved by me.”

“This woman has lost her mind,” Dave shook his head.

I glanced at the signature at the bottom and said, “Oh, it gets better. Number five: Playtime must end promptly at 6:00 p.m. to ensure the neighborhood remains peaceful.” “Respectfully, Melissa, Homeowner.”

My hands began to tremble. Out of sheer, raging rage, not fear. “She’s trying to control our children’s laughter, Dave.”

He inquired, “Which house is Melissa’s?”

I gestured toward the immaculate white colonial that was next door. “She’s got to be kidding, right?”

I threw the paper in the garbage after crumpling it. I had no intention of allowing a control-hungry neighbor to determine how my children played.

However, my heart broke into a million pieces three days later.

At 4:30, Simon and Abby lumbered in the front door. Their shoulders sagged, and the silence that raises the red flags for all mothers took the place of their customary post-playground talk.

Have you ever seen your child’s face and realized right away that something horrible has happened? How does their typical spark simply vanish?

I said, “Hey guys, you’re home early,” as I put the wash basket down. “Everything okay?”

Abby’s bottom lip began to quiver. “Ms. Melissa said we can’t play on the playground anymore.”

I went cold. “What did you just say, baby?”

“She was there with a clipboard and everything,” Simon said, trying desperately to seem brave in his eight-year-old voice. “She had this really serious face and she said we were being too loud.”

“Too loud doing what?”

“Just playing, Mommy,” Abby muttered as her tears began to fall. “We were going down the slide and laughing, and she said we were breaking her rules.”

My heart began to race. “What exactly did she say to you both?”

Simon examined his footwear. “She said if we can’t follow the neighborhood rules, we’re not allowed to use the playground. She said she’s the one who makes sure everyone behaves properly around here.”

Abby said, “She was really mean, Mommy,” as she used her sleeve to wipe her nose. “She used that voice that teachers use when you’re in really big trouble.”

“Did she raise her voice at you?”

“Kind of,” acknowledged Simon. “She said we were disturbing the peace and that good children know how to play quietly.”

Something inside of me exploded at that moment. Dave and I sat at the kitchen table that evening after I put the kids to bed with extra cuddles and assurances that everything would be alright. Even though my hands were still shaking, it was from intense, unadulterated anger.

“She made our babies cry, Dave. She stood there with a clipboard like some kind of playground dictator and made our children feel like criminals.”

Dave took my hands in his and reached across the table. “I know, honey. I’m furious too.”

“Furious doesn’t even begin to cover it. She looked my babies in the eye and crushed their spirits over what? Laughter? Joy? The sound of children being children?”

“What do you want to do about it?”

Have you ever been so furious that your fingertips began to pound? When Dave asked me that question, I was sitting there at the time.

“I want to march over there right now and tell her exactly what I think of her and her ridiculous rules,” I clinched my teeth and said.

“And then what? She calls the police and claims we’re harassing her. We just moved here, Kathy. We can’t afford to make enemies of the whole neighborhood.

I gazed at Melissa’s house through the window. With the exception of one upper window, where I could see her shadow moving, all the lights were out. She was most likely up there, coming up with even more heinous ways to ruin children’s lives.

“She messed with the wrong mama, Dave. Nobody, and I mean nobody, makes my children feel ashamed for being kids.”

“So what’s the plan?”

My features broke into a slow, perilous smile. “I’m going to give her exactly what she’s asking for: rules, structure, and order. But I’m going to do it my way.”

Dave responded, “That look in your eyes is making me nervous,” but he was also grinning.

“Good. It should.”

I picked up printer paper, a package of white envelopes, and something that made me smile like a child planning the ideal practical joke—a toy noise meter from the electronics department—when I drove to the office supply store downtown the following morning.

When Simon and Abby were securely in bed that night, I took a seat at my computer. I was going to show Melissa how a mother with too much time and too much righteous rage plays to win if she chose to play the rule game.

Cracking my knuckles, I began composing my own set of “Neighborhood Rules.” Mine weren’t simply ridiculous, though. Anyone with half a brain would identify them as the brilliant satire they were intended to be right away because they were so utterly absurd.

This is what I thought of:

Official Neighbourhood Regulations: Updated Version

To avoid grass contamination, dogs must always wear socks on all four paws.
Only after 2:00 p.m. is it acceptable to laugh in the yard. until 2:15 p.m. 3 p.m. on weekdays. until 3:10 p.m. on the weekends.
Melissa’s lawn can only be inspected with written consent that is presented 48 hours beforehand.
Jogging is only appropriate if you hum classical music while maintaining a respectable pace of precisely two miles per hour.
Melissa must be notified right away of any bird singing that is more than 50 dB so that it can be properly cited.
Mailmen are not allowed to wear squeaky shoes and must announce their presence with a gentle whistle.
It’s important to close car doors as gently as you would a library book.
For community harmony to be maintained, all flowers must face the same way.

Except for Melissa’s house, I printed 20 copies, one for each home on our block. She would discover it in due time.

Like a suburban Robin Hood, I went door to door at dusk. I didn’t go to Melissa’s house. She would soon discover the source of these. With my heart pounding with excitement, I attached an envelope to each of the other front doors on the block.

The following morning was better than the combination of my birthday, Christmas, and discovering cash in your trousers pocket. I sat with my coffee by the kitchen window and watched the performance.

Her envelope was found first by Mrs. Patterson across the street. She looked perplexed after opening it, reading for ten or so seconds, and then burst out laughing so hard she had to lean on her mailbox for balance.

She called her hubby, “Harold!” “You have got to see this!”

At the same moment, Mr. Rodriguez from the next room opened his. He had a better response! At that moment, he burst out laughing on his front porch.

Here’s what made my heart sing, though. By 8 a.m., I could actually see neighbors going to each other’s homes, exchanging the fictitious regulations, pointing to Melissa’s ideal home, and laughing so hard that it hurts your cheeks.

Melissa’s self-styled “authority” quickly became the most popular comedy event in the neighborhood. I wasn’t done, though. Not even close.

When they were having breakfast, Abby said, “Mom, can we go to the playground today?”

“Absolutely we can, sweetheart. And I have a very special surprise for you both.”

I delivered on my promise to provide the children a unique surprise that afternoon. I took that lovely little toy noise meter, my secret weapon, and packed their favorite munchies.

Simon said, “Mom, what’s that weird thing?” as we made our way to the playground.

“This, my brilliant boy, is our insurance policy!” I said, wearing a smile that was perhaps a bit too cheeky for a mature, responsible person.

Abby wanted to know, “Insurance for what?”

“You’ll see, baby girl. You’ll see.”

It was the ideal playground, complete with squeaky swings, slick enough slides to make you squeal, and a jungle gym that virtually pleaded with children to climb it. I was able to watch my kids play for the first time in days without feeling anxious.

I took out the meter and held it up as if I were doing a scientific experiment when they began to giggle on the swings.

I yelled, “Fifty-eight decibels!” in my most formal tone. “Still within regulation, kids!”

“Mom, are you feeling okay?” Simon asked, pausing his swinging to look at me.

I called back, “Never better! Keep playing!”

I wildly waved the meter in the air once more as Abby screamed with sheer delight as she went hurtling down the slide.

“Fifty-nine decibels! We’re safe, everyone!”

For them, that’s when things clicked. Trying to find out how loud they could get without going over Melissa’s absurd 60-decibel restriction, they began to laugh more. Their laughter evolved into belly laughs, which in turn produced the happy sound that reminds you why having children is the greatest thing in the world.

Other neighbors began congregating along the playground’s edge to water plants and stroll pets. They were obviously in on the joke since they were grinning and several of them were laughing out loud at our performance.

Our top act then made her dramatic appearance.

Melissa strode down the street as if she were leading an all-female army into combat. Her flawlessly combed hair was slightly mussed from what I could only imagine was frenzied pacing, her hands were curled into fists that would have made a boxer proud, and her face was the color of a ripe tomato.

She shouted, “This is totally inappropriate!” “You’re making a mockery of everything I’ve worked to establish here!”

With the composure of an experienced diplomat, I raised my noise meter. “Actually, Melissa, we’re sitting pretty at 57 decibels. Well within your established guidelines.”

“Don’t you dare stand there and patronize me!” she said, her voice growing progressively higher and softer. “You think this is funny? You think disrupting an entire neighborhood is some kind of joke?”

The few neighbors who had come to see our “decibel monitoring” grew silent, but I continued to measure and my children continued to play.

I calmly declared, “Fifty-eight decibels,” while Simon chuckled at something Abby had said. “Still completely legal according to your rules, Melissa.”

She yelled, “Those aren’t my rules!” “Somebody made fake rules! Somebody is trying to make me look ridiculous!”

Across the street, Mrs. Patterson was powerless to resist. “Well, they’re not trying very hard,” she said in a voice that was audible to all.

Melissa’s tenuous hold on sanity was totally shattered at that point.

She said, “I’ll have every single one of you arrested!” and pointed to the neighbors, the children, and me. “This is harassment! This is illegal! Everyone needs to leave this playground immediately or I’m calling the authorities!”

I glanced at the faces of those observing this show. These were sensible individuals who knew that playgrounds were for kids to play on.

I said, “Fifty-nine decibels,” in a rock-steady voice. “Still within your parameters, Melissa.”

She pulled out her phone like it was a weapon of mass destruction at that point. “Fine! We’ll see what the police have to say about this!”

After ten minutes, two police officers approached the playground with the exhausted looks of those who had witnessed too much local drama. Melissa virtually ran to them, waving her arms and speaking so quickly that I could not understand what she was saying.

“Officers, thank goodness you’re here! This woman is deliberately violating every neighborhood noise regulation we have! Her children are laughing above acceptable decibel levels, and she’s using some kind of device to mock my authority!”

The initial police officer, a calm-looking man in his forties, looked at me, then at my children having a good time on the swings, and then at my clearly toy noise meter.

“This is a public playground. Children are allowed to play here,” he stated to Melissa in that cool tone that police officers employ when dealing with irrational people.

Melissa yelled, “But the rules!” at frequencies that likely irritated dogs three blocks away. “The neighborhood rules clearly state that excessive noise is forbidden!”

With a notepad in hand, the second officer inquired, “Ma’am, what neighborhood rules?”

“The ones I distributed to maintain order and peace in this community! The ones that keep property values high and ensure we live in a civilized society!”

The first cop raised an eyebrow at me. “Did you agree to any special neighborhood rules?”

“Nope,” I answered, keeping a straight face and holding up my noise meter. “Just making sure we stay within normal noise levels for a public playground.”

Melissa’s tone became even more elevated. “She’s mocking me! She distributed fake rules to the entire neighborhood! She’s turning everyone against me!”

The second officer inquired, “And what exactly are these fake rules?”

Melissa began to splutter. “Dogs wearing socks! Birds needing permits to sing! It’s all designed to make me look foolish!”

The officers exchanged a gaze that conveyed a lot without using words.

First officer: “Ma’am, I need you to lower your voice,” he remarked sternly.

“I will NOT lower my voice! This is MY neighborhood! I have worked too hard to maintain standards here to let some newcomer destroy everything!”

More satisfying than finding the ideal parking space, winning the lottery, and receiving green lights all the way home combined was what transpired next.

Melissa continued to escalate despite the officers’ best efforts to calm her down. Her movements became more erratic and her voice louder. Then she began pointing accusingly at arbitrary neighbors who had come to observe.

“All of you are in on this! You’re all against me! I’ll sue every single one of you for harassment!”

My children had ceased their play and were observing with interest as this adult woman threw a fit that would have made a two-year-old feel ashamed.

The second officer said, “Ma’am, I’m going to ask you one last time to calm down and lower your voice.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do! I called YOU! I’m the victim here! Arrest her! Arrest her children! They’re the criminals!”

You could cut the irony with a knife because it was so thick. While my children stood calmly and watched, Melissa was yelling at the top of her lungs about noise infractions. While she was moaning about other people “disturbing” the serenity, she was also disturbing it herself.

The first cop took out his handcuffs and said, “Ma’am, you’re under arrest for disturbing the peace,”

“This is illegal! You can’t arrest me! I’m the one who called you! I’m trying to maintain order!”

The neighbors cheered as they carried her away while continuing to yell about noise levels and local authority. The kind of rejoicing clapping you hear when justice is finally done, not malicious applause.

In our community, word got about more quickly than rumors at a church gathering. By the end of the week, everyone was aware of Melissa’s narrative of getting herself arrested for disturbing the peace, which was exactly what she was attempting to avoid.

She now stays away from our family as if we were infected with a contagious illness. When she notices us approaching, she crosses the street. When the children are playing in our yard, she draws the shades. Furthermore, since her arrest, she has not disseminated a single “rule”.

What, perhaps, is the most lovely aspect of this entire tale? Up until the streetlights turn on, my children are playing outside. They chuckle as loudly as their tiny hearts will allow. They gallop fearlessly on all the grass blades in the neighborhood.