Some kids are just born tricksters.
Take my daughter, for example, who at the ripe old age of 20 months pulled the world's best/worst April Fools Day prank on me — and locked me in the bathroom while we were alone during the day.
How did she manage such a feat, you may ask? It's a multi-step process she mastered in one try:
Step 1: Shut bathroom door.
Step 2: Open adjacent laundry room door as wide as it will go, wedging it against the bathroom door so it can't open.
Step 3: Refuse all instruction shouted frantically through the door, AT ALL COSTS.
So what exactly goes through a person's mind after getting locked in a bathroom, separated from their toddler, who is now free in a house full of possibilities and potential danger?
Holy shit. This can't be happening. This is… funny? How absurd would it be if I was actually locked in my own bathroom while my toddler had the run of the house?
Holy shit. This is happening. What. The. Fuck? How am I locked in here? What piece of furniture could a 25-pound kid possibly drag over in 2 seconds that's too heavy for me to move? Is she an actual baby witch who just cast a spell on this door?
Holy shit. Did I leave anything dangerous within reach — knives, cleaning supplies, the cat's litter box? Is the front door locked? Can she reach the oven buttons?
Holy shit. I have to keep her near me and get out of here. I need to sound calm, not panicked.
I'll sing something. Twinkle Twinkle, little baby, I hope that's not you in the litter box.
I should really reread the Harry Potter series — what would Hermione do here?
Holy shit. Forget magic, I need Patrick Swayze. Round-house kick this door down, Road House-style. I should Google how to actually kick down a door.
Holy shit, I have my phone!? I have my PHONE! I will phone a friend!
Holy shit. Help is on the way. We are saved. We are saved as soon as daddy can walk 10 blocks.
Daddy should run. I should call him back and tell him to run. Thank God I didn't kick the door down.
Holy shit. It's been 45 seconds. Why isn't Daddy here yet? Why isn't he sprinting through traffic like a skinny, Cuban Usain Bolt, running as fast as he can to free me from my prison?
Holy shit. This is actually kind of romantic, screaming baby and musty bath mat aside. When else has my husband had the chance to "save me"? He's my hero!
Holy shit. If I didn't have a kid, getting locked in the bathroom would be a spa day. I could take a bath. Shave my legs. Exfoliate. Rearrange the bathroom cabinet. Take a nap. Or cut my hair. Yep, I'd cut my hair. And fo' sho, I would regret it.
Holy shit. I think my kid actually loves me. She's really upset. I had no idea she'd be this upset. Listen to her saying "up please?" She can only be this upset if she actually loves me. Poor little poodle pie.
HOLY SHIT!!!!! WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG?! JUST GET HERE. The only way to keep her from screaming is to smush my face against the bottom of the door and blast "Shake It Off" — and my phone battery is dying and there are pubes on the floor. GET HERE!
Holy shit! He's HERE! He's HERE! I'm FREE!
Don't make fun of me. Don't make me explain in detail how it happened. Just open the door and let me hug and kiss our baby even though she's covered in snot and tears, with a booger the size of a garbanzo bean on her cheek. Let me make sure she knows I would never intentionally leave her.
While we got away relatively unscathed, I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I didn't have my phone, or if my husband hadn't answered.
Lesson learned: keep your phone close, and your doors open. Alternatively, become a witch, or learn how to break down doors using nothing but a well-delivered round house kick. Your choice.
Related: AITA For Calling My Daycare And Complaining Anonymously?
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