It started as a game. Just a simple game.
I, in the hallway, picking up dog hair, kids blocks and random miscellaneous crap, and Bjorn, in his room not ten feet away, closing the door from the inside, knocking and laughing hysterically when I opened it again.
Which lasted until I was done picking up crap and went to open his door for the last time.
Only to find it locked. With Bjorn alone inside the room. He has somehow locked the door. And this is how it went. . . . . .
Omigod it's locked. Omigod omigod omigod.
Bjorn starts crying and banging on door. Ummm. . . . I bet our house key fits all the bedroom doors too, right?! It has to. . . . keys. . . keys.. . .
Find my giant, bottomless pit of a diaper bag. Root through diaper bag for five seconds calmly shouting "Bjorn, it's ok. I can hear you. You're alright." before very un-calmly dumping diaper bag on kitchen table.
Cheerios fly everywhere.
Keys, keys, where the f&^* are my keys?! Can't find keys. Ummm. . . spare keys are in kitchen drawer. Grab them - right where they are supposed to be, Thank God - and run to Bjorn's room.
There is no key hole. Only a tiny slit.
Flabbergasted. No key hole? NO KEY HOLE? What kind of door doesn't have a key hole?!
All the while, Bjorn is sobbing and screaming, banging on the inside of the door.
"I'm here, Bjorn. I can see you. Can you see me?" while I wiggle my fingers under the door, pretending this is a game. "See?! I'm here. You're ok."
And I can see him. At least from his ankle bones down. As he runs from the middle of the room to the door and back to the middle of the room again. And back to the door again.
Must call Hubs. He always knows what to do.
Phone. . .phone. . where the f&*^ is my phone?! I don't remember seeing it the pile of rubble from my purse. F^&$!!!
Remember that we do own a home phone, we just never use it. Call Hubs number. He is leaving Home Depot to come home. Tell him calmly (ok, calm-ish-ly) the situation.
"Well, you will just have to bust down the door."
Can't do that. The kiddo is standing right behind the door. I could hurt him.
"It's ok Buddy. You're ok. I can see you. Mommy is here."
Bjorn's crying has turned to wailing. The banging continues from the inside.
"You will just have to break in through the window."
Not what I want to hear. I want to hear that there is a secret passageway from the laundry room to Bjorn's room. I want to hear that we have a key for a doorknob with no key hole. I want to hear that he has it all figured out. I hang up with The Hubs so I can concentrate.
I run to the garage, searching for a screwdriver. I am going to break through the friggin' doorknob with no key hole.
Screwdriver. . . . screwdriver. . . where the f%^& are the screwdrivers? Hubs, why did I spend money we didn't have to buy you two Craftsman tool boxes that could store every tool you could ever dream of having if you aren't going to put the f&*^ing screwdrivers back into this overpriced excuse of a tool case?!
Found one. Lying on the toolbench.
Continue to reassure Bjorn through the door using the same safe words.
"You're ok, Bjorn. Really. You wanna sing? Let's sing together."
Wailing from inside the room gets louder. Could be because of my singing voice.
Prying with the screwdriver. Can't get the friggin' tip behind the knob base to pry it off. But I will. pry, pry. . . prying. All the time singing and talking to Bjorn.
Hubs calls back.
"The dog can usually get into Bjorn's room even after we shut it. The latch is a little loose. Just throw your body weight a few times into it."
That's right! Dog is able to get in there somehow! Check under the door - Bjorn is a few feet away from the door.
I throw myself at the mercy of the door. Thud. Thud. THUD THUD THUD!
I have five new bruises and a door that still won't open.
"DOOOOOGGG! DOG! Come here and help. DOOOOGG!" She is not coming to help.
I can hear the Hubs on the phone still. "Omigod, I am going 80 miles an hour. I'm almost there. You are doing good. You can get him out of there."
I finally pry the knob base off the door. Lots of wires and contraptions. Can't get the whole knob off. Why the f^&% won't this knob come off? It must be the toughest doorknob ever made. The armored truck of doorknobs. I poke and prod with the screwdriver, jiggling and wiggling. Something has to freakin be the freakin wire that opens the freakin lock. IT HAS TO OPEN SOMEHOW.
I step back, take a breath and get ready to throw myself at the door again.
Randomly, I put the screwdriver in the tiny slit where a key hole should be and turn.
And the door opens.