Rex, Rocky, Vivi, and Billy                                                                            

"Shit. Call Dad.  Tell Him to Saw the Door Off."

"Shit. Call Dad. Tell Him to Saw the Door Off."

Okay, lemme set the scene.  We are at my parent’s house—Rex, Rocky, my mom, Riley (the 12 year old “mother’s helper” magician who I used to babysit for) and I.  My mom had the day off and took the boys for me.  She enlisted Riley for some extra backup.  So went to therapy (because, duh), hung out with a friend, ran some errands, and arrive at her house at around 2:30pm to hang out for a bit before bringing them home.  A few rescue missions, incarcerations in pretend jail (my mother’s closet) and laps around with the oversized toy recycling truck later, it’s time for me to pack up the crazies and head home.

Rex immediately breaks out in full toddler tantrum hell when I tell him it’s time to leave.  Whatever, I’ll grab Rocky and deal with my eldest assface in a minute.  Rocky??  Rockkkkkky??  I can hear his little footsteps in the bathroom a few feet away.  Then I go to open the door.  What the?  NO. Nope. What? NO!

I am hoping I can describe this correctly.  Basically there is a double vanity directly to the left when you walk in the bathroom.   First thing on the vanity, all the way to the left, are four stacked drawers.  This little motherfucker has closed the bathroom door, and then opened the top vanity drawer, creating an FBI grade booby-trap and making it absolutely impossible for me to open the bathroom door more than a quarter of an inch.

“Mom! Grab me something thin like a knife or something to stick in here and try to push this drawer back!”  I am remaining kind of calm.  I will figure this out.  A knife, cake server, fork, and spatula later, I am beginning to have a panic attack.  He can sense it, and is now screaming.

Each minute feels like twenty and I start sweating.  He is scared, and alone, and he is surely going to die.  He’s going to climb onto the toilet, swan dive off, and break his neck.  He is going to try to eat one of those stupid rubber bath letters and choke.  He is going to turn the tub on and burn himself with scalding hot water.  “Play it Cool Mom” or “Laid Back Mom” wouldn’t have taken the mental trip to crazytown so quickly, but hi, it’s me.  Even pumped fulla celexa this is still one of those worst case scenario moments that will haunt me for at least a decade.

I continue to open and shut the door slightly as I try to maneuver more weird objects inside to help me (#thatswhatshesaid).  My mom calls my dad, general contracting extraordinaire (www.burnhamconstruction.com) and I can hear her talking to him calmly--- “yeah, we tried that. Yup. I don’t know.”  Now I am screaming “TELL HIM TO COME HOME NOW!” Riley tries to occupy Rex but I can hear him nervously yell at her “No, Riley! My mom is scared, she needs me!” I’m too panic stricken to even appreciate his cuteness.  I am just barking at him to give me space.

What the hell will my dad even do when he gets here?  Saw the door open? Well that won’t be traumatizing at all for Rocky.  And what are the changes that Mr. Danger himself won’t try to grab the saw and be left with three fingers? Oh, God.  He’s gunna be the fingerless guy.  Whatever, my dad will figure it out.  In the meantime, I need to calm Rocky down so he isn’t scared for life and tracing his fucked-up-ness back to this moment thirty years from now.

I lay down and I can see his little feet running back and forth in the crack under the door.  I try to sound really calm.  “Hi, Rock. It’s okay. You’re okay.  Mommy is right here.  Rock, close the drawer.  See the drawer?  Shut the drawer, Rock.”  I can feel my mom and Riley rolling their eyes and silently calling me crazy.  I mean, Rex has had a few scholarship moments, but Davidson boy numero dos is showing no signs of brilliance.  Although his athletic future could be promising, the kid has a questionable IQ at best.  Up until today his biggest academic achievement is answering “woof, woof” when I ask him what the dog says.  “Come on, Rocky.  It’s ok.  Shut the drawer. Shut the drawer.”

(((bang noise)))

Holy shit did I just hear the door shut? I quickly turned the doorknob.  I’m in! FUCKING SECRET GENIUS!

As I hold him he calms down but keeps his little head on my shoulder for five minutes---something he hasn’t been still enough to do since he was a newborn.  After a few minutes he seems fine and I pack them up and head home.  Both boys seem completely unscathed.

My mom called me a few minutes after I left to check on me.  My dad texted me a few hours later.  I tried to explain the scenario to Matt and he kind of just laughed.  I think he thinks it’s cool that Rocky is a raging lunatic.

I am going to try hard not to go down a rabbit hole of what-ifs that leave me unable to leave Rocky again.  But I am also heading straight to pinterest to search “bathrooms without vanities or doors” to come up with some modern, new-age ideas for my mom’s house.  She’s gunna love it.

Evening Is For Me Time

Evening Is For Me Time

Bedtime, Shmedtime.

Bedtime, Shmedtime.