My mom loves to tell a story about me when I was just about two years old. The way it goes, Mom had put me and my few-months-old sister Sarah into the car, and then ran back into the house for something. When she came to get back in the car, Sarah and I were both locked in, along with Mom's keys. Woops! We had just gotten a new car with automatic locks, and apparently I was quite a whiz with locking them. The only problem? Apparently I wasn't as good at unlocking them.
Poor Mom stood by my car door, shouting through the window, "Katie, push the button! The little button!" I made a few half-hearted attempts as Sarah started to scream, then interested myself with a small bag of M&Ms that I tore open and began to eat, one at a time. "Katie, honey, push the button." Again, fumbled with the lock for a minute, and went back to eating, unfazed by Sarah's screaming. Mom explained, coaxed, pleaded, and finally shouted at the top of her lungs, "Katie, will you unlock that door? Push the button!" I calmly looked at her and said, "Mommy, I've tried and I've tried, and I just can't." Mom ended up having to call a locksmith, Sarah cried herself to sleep, and I finished that bag of M&Ms and chilled for a while. After Mom cooled off, it became one of her favorite stories to tell about me.
They say what goes around comes around, right? Today Milo and I spent some time playing in his room, and I had to take a potty break. I told him, "Milo, stay here. Mommy will be right back." As I closed the bathroom door, I heard him shut his bedroom door, too. No big deal - he closes himself in quite frequently (and then knocks on the door until someone lets him out). When I came back and turned the handle, though, it didn't budge, and I realized that Milo had figured out how to lock his door. Great...
"Milo, did you lock the door?" Milo responded by pulling on the door handle with all his might and yelling, "Help me help me helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme!" If there's anything that makes a mommy want to rip down a door, it's that. I took a deep breath, and said, "Milo, baby, it's okay. We'll get it open. Can you turn the little knob on the door?"
He calmed right down, and I heard a rattling on the handle itself, so I explained to him, "No, baby, the little knob on top of the big one." Again, a rattling of the handle, and then I heard him go back to playing. "Milo, come here! Come to the door and turn the little knob!" A tiny rattle, and then back to playing.
After a general inspection of the knob, I grabbed my phone, and called the person who always fixes everything. Nate. My call bounced straight to voicemail and I tried not to scream. I called Amanda next, for no other reason than she has four children, and I generally assume she knows how to do everything. No answer from her, either. Then I realized I should have been calling Gary in the first place, so I tried him next. He laughed, offered to come over, and then explained to me what I would need to get in. I promised to call him back if I couldn't get in, and ran for Nate's toolbox, shouting over my shoulder, "Mommy will be right back, Milo!"
I got back with the whole box and tried just about every flathead screwdriver I could find. None of them were small enough, and I tried to explain to Milo again about the little knob on the door handle. This time he didn't even attempt to rattle the knob, and I stopped and thought, "Oh my gosh, I'm totally getting what I deserve right now. I'm so sorry, Mom."
In the end, I finally found the right tool, popped that door open, and felt a rush of pride. Milo looked up from his playmat and toy cars without a bit of concern, gave me a smile, and went right back to what he was doing. We both survived, I learned a new skill, and had a great story to tell my Mom. What a day.