Soo...yesterday evening I went out to grab the mail. Out
of habit once I unlocked the front door and opened it I flipped the lock. This
was a mistake.
As you may know, Duncan is obsessed with shutting doors.
Normally it takes an act of Congress to get our front door open or closed. Not
last night. That thing slammed like a hurricane came through.
**You should note that I had locked the door**
Duncan locked me out. I wasn’t wearing shoes.
I had on my at home yoga pants and a tank top, stylishly accessorized with a ThermaCare wrap on my shoulder. Nor did I have my keys (why would I have my keys? I was just grabbing the
mail…). I proceeded to not panic. Which is a slight miracle in
itself. And then walked to the back door. Did you know there are thistle-y
things in my yard? I didn’t. I do now.
Guess what happened when I tried to open the back
door? Nothing. I was 100% locked out. Crap. (well, I may have used stronger language but this is a family blog!)
It's August. We have one open window: above the sink in the
kitchen. Which is about 8 feet (or 500) off the ground. I first
tried standing on a cooler we have out back. Not even close.
I went to the garage (note I’m still barefoot). I
somehow managed to get the garage door open and not disturb the yellow jacket
nests or piss off any spiders. Lo and behold! A step
ladder! I could now get 3 feet high! Please note that I’m 5’2”
tall.
I drug the stepladder back to underneath the
window. Using it properly got me…not even close.
Improperly? Closer.
I gingerly stepped onto the top of the ladder. The
part you’re supposed to use as a handle. I managed to beat the screen
out. I then (somehow) managed to grab the inside of the window then
scramble to a precarious perch in the window. At this point, Duncan
saw me and realized I wasn’t in the house. Because I was hanging in the
window. He looked at me with a “what the heck are you doing there?”
look and proceeded ignore me.
I teetered and tottered and got a leg through the
window. And made it back into the house. I checked Duncan (he was
fine…lucky kid) and then washed all the dirt off me. Pretty much lost it,
got it back and ate a bowl of ice cream. With caramel. Because I
deserved it.
This is why, if anyone asks, I have one child. Because 2 of them colluding against me? **shudder** I don't want to think about it.
PS. I went into the living room after I was cleaned up and my son was sitting on the couch with my reading glasses on, "reading" my
Kindle.
PSS. Full “I’m a great mom” confession: Duncan
tripped earlier in the evening and has a goose egg from landing on the
heating grate.
PSSS. Duncan will probably survive until he’s
10. I may not…
PSSSS. A "real" blog post should be up soon. Or eventually...
