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, theyâ€™re not big enough to reach the lock on the door. By age 3, theyâ€™re big enough for you to threaten to kill them. Two? Youâ€™re screwed.)
A lady walking her dog crossed to the other side of the street, clearly intent on avoiding the family domestic disturbance. â€œLET ME BACK IN THE HOUSE!!! UNLOCK THE DOOR. UNLOCK! UNLOCK!!!â€
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: Iâ€™ve done this before. (It was an old unstable door. Donâ€™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 (thatâ€™s right â€“ 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 â€“ 60-gallon recycling bins arenâ€™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 â€œcoming back downâ€ 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 itâ€™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, â€œHands out of the toilet, little man!â€
Day in the lifeâ€¦