Plans were for an easy night. Got home per usual, unloaded the muppets, opened the door and embarked upon the multiple treks needed to shlep all our stuff back inside.
I heard the giggle. The door closed.
I heard the bolt click. The world went slo-mo. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
(When your toddler locks you out of the house, profanity is totally acceptable. Because at age 1, they’re not big enough to reach the lock on the door. By age 3, they’re big enough for you to threaten to kill them. Two? You’re screwed.)
A lady walking her dog crossed to the other side of the street, clearly intent on avoiding the family domestic disturbance. “LET ME BACK IN THE HOUSE!!! UNLOCK THE DOOR. UNLOCK! UNLOCK!!!”
This was clearly not working. I took a moment to take stock of the situation.
Peering in through the windowpanes, I could see clearly because Search had completely dismantled the curtains that provide the illusion of privacy from inside the house.
Destroy was marching around the entryway topless. He had found a flashlight to serve as his baton, I assume after figuring out how to remove his shirt. Goodie.
Need. To. Get. In. That. House.
Option 1: Miraculously convince conspiratorial stubborn muppets to unlock door.
Problem with Option 1: Not happening.
Option 2: Find the spare key conveniently located under the mat.
Problem with Option 2: There is no spare key under the mat. Or anywhere else outside of the house. I looked.
Option 3: Break down the door.
Problem with Option 3: I’ve done this before. (It was an old unstable door. Don’t judge me.) Dogs will leave. And likely muppets. And then I will have to take time off work to wait for a new door. Jon will be unhappy.
Solution. I was going to have to go through the doggie door. Problem. Doggie doors (that’s right – plural) are located on the *other* side of our fully enclosed 14 foot fence.
I stepped out of my heels. I stripped off my sweater. The white undershirt and tan pencil skirt were going to be sacrificed on this mission.
Padding over to the side of the house, I shoved the blue 60-gallon recycling bin up against the aging wood fence. (I was hoping the recyclables would be marginally less icky should I fall through the lid.) Related – 60-gallon recycling bins aren’t meant to hold the full weight of an average-sized mommy climbing them like a step stool. Apparently.
Also, 14 feet is a LOT taller at the top of the fence as it occurs to you that you may have come up with a brilliant plan to get *up* the fence, but had not necessarily thought the whole “coming back down” process thoroughly through.
Tuck and roll. TUCK AND ROLL!
I landed on the dog. Mostly.
I scrambled through the first doggie door into the garage. So close. You know, those doors seem much larger when the dogs are running to and fro like it’s no big thing. Time to tackle the second obstacle door.
With additionally bloodied and scraped shins, sweaty, grimy and covered in dirt and dust, and completely exasperated, I have never been so thrilled to be sprawled across my kitchen tile floor. (Not even when I was arfing my brains out during pregnancy.)
Just in time to authoritatively decree, “Hands out of the toilet, little man!”
Day in the life…