Hardly An Open and Shut Case

You know that feeling you get when you're about to have a traffic accident? The one where everything slows down and it seems like an eternity until you hear the sickening crash, followed by the sound of crumpled metal and broken glass?

It was like that.

There I was, washing my clothes the other night. Rachel was in the bathroom, trying to merge butt with potty. The bathroom door was at a 45 degree angle, affording her some level of privacy.

As I loaded the washer, I noticed the door being pushed so it could be completely shut. For some reason, the red warning light went off in my head and I thought, "Noooooooooooooooooooooo!" in that slowed down voice that resembles a record played at too slow a speed. (You remember records, right?)

As I lunged for the door, it shut. I reached in vain to open it just a crack. My instincts were accurate. My child had just locked herself in the bathroom.

My wife wasn't home. She would be gone most of the night, singing in a chorale concert. It was just me and Rachel. Mano a toddler. Concerned father and short-attention spanned daughter.

Repeatedly, I urged Rachel to turn the lock in the doorknob. She turned the doorknob really well, just not the lock. It was like a bad cell phone call. It was obvious that I connected, but Rachel kept losing the cell as something else distracted her.

Earlier that afternoon, we had been to Arby's. She had been given a plastic safe with stickers inside. Toddlers love stickers. They'll stick them on things until the adhesive no longer works. Stickers wind up on the bottom of your socks, never to be seen again until they are wadded up and thrown in the trash, at which time they recover just enough adhesive to stick to your hand no matter how vehemently you shake it.

Anyway, I'm exhorting Rachel on the foyer side of the door. "Rachel, please, open the door! Please, open the door! Turn the knob!"

I see three little fingers sticking out the bottom of the door frame. "Here, daddy, have a sticker."

"Rachel, can you hear me? Focus! I need you to turn the lock in the doorknob so the door opens."

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"I want my sticker back."

I comply. I pass the sticker under the door, along with two illustrations on a yellow legal pad page. One shows the lock right to left; the other shows the lock up and down. "Honey, I need you to follow those pictures and turn the lock."

Brief silence. And then, "I have to go to the potty!"

Sigh. "Okay, you go to the potty." My voice raised. I was having a difficult time controlling the panic. "Then open the door!"

That got us nowhere. I went to our bedroom. Time to get out the tool kit. There was no other option. I had to put screwdrivers to doorknob and stage a dramatic rescue. I loosened the two screws and almost saw the doorknob fall onto the floor on the bathroom side. That would have been great, huh? I grabbed it and peered through the hole. I saw one blue eye looking back at me.

The next time I looked, Rachel was on her knees in the bathtub, using her bathtub markers to paint an exotic array of swirls and curlicues. First she had to go to the bathroom. Then she got to Van Gogh in the bathroom.

Anyway, I got the lock to pop and gained access to the bathroom. "Daddy!" exclaimed Rachel. "You found me!"

There were hugs, followed by conversation.

When my wife returned from the concert, I regaled her with the tale of our dramatic evening.

"Oh," Rebecca replied matter-of-factly. "She's done that before. You just have to pull on the knob real hard and the lock gives way."

That would have been really good to know about four hours earlier.