is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Locked up. Or at least out.
Thursday, January 31, 2008 My roommates are on vacation. My roommates, who also are known in this crowded house as my counsel, our generous benefactors of invaluable advice and unlimited microwaveable mac & cheese, my early morning co-parents and mid-afternoon co-op picker-uppers, our landlords, my confidants and reality checkers...oh, and my parents. Those guys are on their way to somewhere sunny and sandy and where the grating song from Dragon Tales cannot be heard.
They're retired and they've been housing us for nearly four months, so they deserve to listen to the waves lapping against the white sand just beyond their rental condo patio. Even though a snow drift is steadily covering the front steps here and the temperatures have dropped to the point that I'm considering pulling on wool socks under my clicky clicky boots, I am happy for their travels south.
They will be snowbirds and we will be shoveling snow. It is also an opportunity for Lil E and I to go it alone and to see how we do together. I've been focusing on this -- on the opportunity of this break -- on how I want to work things without grandpa to handle breakfast while I hop in the shower or grandma to take-over nap time resistance while I finish one last post. And this is what I was centering on yesterday, Day One of Operation Fingers Crossed.
It started off great with Lil E playing quietly while I showered and then having a triumphant day of pretend fire-fighting and napping and snacking at daycare.
The it was off to a friends house for dinner (for us all), Thomas the Train playing (for the kids) and a big glass of merlot (for the parents). I purposely planned that pizza night playdate to fill up our evening with enough distraction and melted cheese so we wouldn't think about the quiet house waiting for us. And it worked like a charm. The boys played and we all pizzaed and we left for home tired and tummies full and happy.
On the ride home, Lil E and I decided he'd kick off his layers of winter wear and the snow from his boots, have one more cookie and then take a nice, warm bath. We talked about making another pizza night playdate for next week and as I yawned, I caught him in the rear view mirror doing the same.
And that's where the magic ended.
Minutes later, I slid the key into the bolt on the front door, gave it a little push to the stubborn lock that sticks even when it isn't 42-below-zero (or whatever the dial was teetering as it got dark last night). When it didn't open, I took a breath, remembering that it sometimes needs a little release and finesse to open. So...inhale, exhale, key in, turn, key out. Oh wait. Key out...WITH THE ENTIRE CYLINDER OF THE LOCK.
Fuuuuuuuuuuck.
Of course, I didn't say that out loud. I just kept
trying to slide the cylinder back in and turn the key different ways
and ignore the little pins falling on to the welcome mat and praying it
would somehow spontaneously all fit back together and open up for a
very cold and weary mama and her antsy and increasingly hyped up boy.
Of course, my prayers to the goddess of deadbolts didn't come through
and I started to panic. How were we going to get in? And why in the
hell didn't I think to get a copy of the backdoor key before my parents
left for vacation four states away? Who in the world would I call for
help? And it hit me like a ring full of skeleton keys -- We were alone.
For the good and the tough and the opportunities, we were alone. And it was bitter cold and getting late.
I tried to think and the more rational I tried silently to be, the
louder Lil E got, stomping his boots and singing and making shrill
little noises that endlessly entertain three-year-olds and irritate
anyone older.
"BABY!," I said firmly but careful not to yell out my frustration at
the lock on him, "I need you to be quiet and calm for a few minutes. I
am frustrated and concerned and trying to figure out what to do and I
need your help here."
He stopped stomping, looked up at me and shook his head, agreeing.
"I'm nervous about it too, mommy," he said in a way that was validating
more than real worry, and then went back to stomping and shrilling,
just at a hundredth of the volume.
I called my parents but their cell phone was off. I called my brother
but he is long-distance and had nothing to realistically offer me more
than an "Oh shit, I am so sorry." What to do? What to do? My mind spun
and landed on calling a locksmith.
And then the real turn. The only person I could think of close enough
to help us was the Almost Ex. And I hated to do that. Hated to ask him
for help, hated to need help, had to do it. So I took another breath,
dialed, asked him to bring the Yellow Pages and a warm car and to sit
with us until I could find a locksmith to get us inside. To my
surprise, he did.
The locksmith came, drilled through the old lock, replaced it with a
new bolt, tried to jack me around on the price as I expected given that
a) I was desperate, b) the thermostat was now registering freaking
427-below with a windshield of 818-below, c) there was a kid in the
car, d) I am a woman making the negotiation of cash in his hand vs.
check to the company...oh, and #5, IT WAS A LOCKSMITH, saviors and
shysters all, I suspect.
One hour, too much back-and-forth that resulted in finally writing a
check rather than handing over cash in a much more reasonably
negotiated under-the-table agreement that never panned out, and handing
over 300 large for what was actually about 20 minutes worth of work,
the new bolt was in place, the boy was in his pajamas and we were
totally, completely and safely locked in.
The Almost Ex stayed for a few more minutes to make sure the locksmith
was gone and we were settled. It was nicer than I expected but I was
anxious to get back to our quickly-undone evening. When he did, I
turned both bolts, propped a chair underneath the door handle for good
measure, tightened the blinds and carried Lil E into his room for a
bedtime an hour-and-a-half later than most nights.
He fell asleep quickly and I sprawled out on the couch and let the
creaks in the house and wind rattling the windows cover me. Now, we
were alone.
We were out a few hundred bucks and we had to call on someone I don't
want to turn to for help to help. We'd need a few copies of the house
keys and an agreement with some family friends in case something else
falls apart, and we'd surely be tired in the morning. But we were safe
and inside, locked in instead of out.
We got through and we'd be OK. It isn't sunny and it is certainly no vacation, this time we have and the opportunity that is ahead of us to find our way. But one way or another, even if we have to
call and call and cash out for help, we will be OK. And together.
Reader Comments (4)
Just checking in. Glad this situation worked out -- I can imagine the stomach-churning angst.
Write me an e-mail and tell me what's going on, 'kay?