I should have known how the day was going to go when my Saturday morning literally got off with a bang. As in a neighbor banging on our front door at 7:45 a.m.
P had already left for work and Caroline and I had just woken up. And let me tell y’all that first thing in the morning, I am not only a vision of loveliness, but extremely coherent. In fact, years ago, I had to complete a drivers’ safety training course on a Saturday morning for a new job, and when I showed up, the DPS officer who was teaching the training wouldn’t let me get behind the wheel because he said he could tell by looking at me that I was still drunk from the night before. I had not had one drop of alcohol the night before and in fact, had gone to bed at 10:00 so that I could be fresh as a daisy for driver training.
If that little anecdote doesn’t prove I’m not a morning person, I don’t know what will.
Anyway, I was stumbling out of the bedroom when I heard the banging on the door, so I wrapped my robe a little tighter and scooped up Caroline because all the banging had scared her a little bit and of course, I had no idea what was going on or even what day it was.
I peeked out the little window in our front door and saw a neighbor lady standing there, so I opened the door. She informed me that our dogs were out roaming the neighborhood, and since she walks by our house everyday she knew they belonged to us.
I carried Caroline outside to assess the situation and could see our two canine fools running around about a block away. I called them and they came running, which was good for them because I had decided in advance that I wasn’t running after them. If they wanted to give up a gig that includes free food and trips to the ranch, then that’s their decision.
I thanked the lady for taking the time to let me know about my two runaways and should have apologized for my confused look and shabby appearance, but it’s such a part of my morning persona that it didn’t occur to me until later after much caffeine consumption.
The dogs came running in the house, exhilarated from their morning joyride around the neighborhood.
I attempted to get us back in a leisurely Saturday morning mode after all that excitement, and finally bribed Caroline with a poptart and Veggie Tales so that Mama could relax and read the paper, which is the way God intended Saturday mornings to be.
About an hour later, it was time for us to get dressed. Gulley’s oldest son Jackson had his first t-ball game at 10:00 a.m. and there was no way we were going to miss it. In fact, Jackson got to go meet the Aggie basketball team last week and he was telling Caroline all about it and she said, “Well, yes, but I get to go watch YOU play t-ball, Jackson.”
She is learning all about feeding the male ego at an early age.
So, I got dressed and then prepared to get Caroline ready. I told her she needed to try to go potty before she got dressed. She insisted she didn’t need to go and I told her we weren’t going anywhere until she sat on the potty. It was a battle and ended with her yelling “FINE!” as she ran in the bathroom and slammed the door.
My thoughts exactly. If this is any indication, puberty is going to be one long festival of mother/daughter love.
I was right behind her and was about to tear into her for both the yelling and the slamming. I was ready to launch into Respect Your Mama 101, until I got to the bathroom door, turned the knob and realized it was locked. And not on purpose.
We live in a really old house and like all old houses, it has its quirks. The bathroom door has always had the tendency to lock if it’s closed too hard, but a few months back, P had purposely glued the lock to keep this very thing from happening. It seems that the slamming of the door, rendered his glue job useless.
I tried to remain calm as I said, “Sweetie, you’re going to need to unlock the door. Turn the latch under the knob.”
“This one, Mama?”
“No, that’s the door knob. Turn the latch under that knob.”
“Like this, Mama?”
“No, that’s still the door knob. Look below the door knob.”
“I’m trying, but I can’t turn it. You just fix it, Mama.”
If only it were that easy.
I headed outside thinking that maybe I could talk her through the process by looking in the bathroom window. I had to drag a bench under the window so that I could see in and try to coach her through.
“Yes, sweetie. That’s the lock, now turn it”
“Hold on Mama, I’m going to get my toothbrush to see if that will help”
And I watch her grab her Hello Kitty toothbrush and begin to insert it into the keyhole.
As my brain starts to come out of my ears, I realize I might as well go back inside.
Finally, after many attempts to tell her how to unlock the door and several attempts to use a screwdriver to jimmy the lock on my side and a Hello Kitty toothbrush on her side, I call P. He suggests that I pull the door towards me to take the pressure off and see if she can unlock it. It worked.
I hurriedly got her dressed as I gave her a shortened version of my planned lecture, got in the car and arrived at the Little League fields just in time to see Jackson during his first turn at bat. I guess Caroline was a little traumatized by the bathroom lockup because when everyone started cheering loudly, she melted down and started crying, which eventually required a trip to the concession stand and a bag of Skittles.
In the midst of all of this, I made a crucial wife error. I forgot to call P and let him know I had managed to get the bathroom door open and to make it worse, my cell phone was on vibrate so I didn’t hear the ten times he tried to call to make sure everything was okay.
He left his jobsite and hurried home to find the bathroom door open and the two of us gone. Envisioning that some bathroom tragedy had occurred, he was a little concerned.
Meanwhile, we’re sitting in the stands eating our Skittles and cheering for Jackson, when Gulley’s cell phone began to ring. She picked it up and said, “Oh! It’s P.”
And my heart sank because I knew that if he was calling Gulley’s cell phone, it was because he was worried and had been trying to reach me on my phone. I was right.
So, note to self, always call husband first. Especially if the last time he heard from me I was in the middle of a crisis that involved our daughter being imprisoned in a room that gives her the option of sticking her head in the toilet or sprinkling herself down with Comet Cleanser.
