Robbing Banks and Locking Bathrooms

When I was little, and people used to ask me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I would answer: 

"I want to be a bank robber."

What can I say? It was the first wave of computer-hacking bank-robbing movies and it looked like fun. Anyway, apparently I said it too many times because finally my mom said:

"You have to stop saying that, Sweetie."

Probably, it was a little embarrassing to have a little girl with blunt-cut bangs and chubby cheeks running around telling everyone she wanted to rob banks.

This has a lot to do with today's post, because this weekend, I realized that I never could have dealt with the pressure of robbing banks. In fact, I would have been so bad for that line of work, I think I would have wet myself before any of the people I was robbing had a chance to.

On Saturday, in the middle of a weekend full of crazy (John was golfing with my uncle who was in from out of town, while two boys who refused to nap were running around my house like chickens with their heads cut off), the boys decided to lock themselves in the bathroom.

You know how sometimes, you have this moment of pure inspiration and think, "I can do this in 30 seconds and be back and be organized?" I've decided I will ignore these moments forever. I will call this voice, Nancy, and Nancy needs to be quiet, because here's what Nancy told me to do on Saturday when I was trying to get all of us ready to go swimming.


While the boys play, you run outside with the swimming bag full of clothes and diaper bag because otherwise, you'll have two boys in the car by themselves while you try to make the trip. Ah ha! You smart woman, Nancy. What a great idea! So I grabbed the diaper bag and swimming clothes while the boys were entertained and ran outside. It really was 30 seconds.

30 seconds too long.

When I came back in the house I heard lots of crying and thought, oh hell, one of the boys hit the other one for the 30th time today and I'll have to give a time out while trying to get everyone ready for the pool and spread sunscreen on wriggling bodies.

The boys are in a phase where they like to close doors, so I went to open the bathroom door where they apparently decided to play, and I couldn't open it more than an inch.

They hadn't locked it truly.

Worse.

They'd shut the door, then opened a vanity door and pulled a shelf out that sits just an inch inside the bathroom door. The bathroom door opens to the bathroom, not the hallway, so when I pushed on the door, it hit the door to the vanity, knocked into the pulled out shelf, and I had only enough room to squeeze my hand in (which is now all sorts of bruised because my chubby hand barely fit through that space). On top of that, the lights were out, so my little guys were stuck in a dark bathroom.

In a moment of panic (when I realized bank-robbing would have led to me needing to change my pants a lot, not me making lots of money), I thought, oh my God, they're eating VapoRub. VapoRub is awesome when your kids have a cold. But probably not awesome when consumed.

I started throwing myself at the door. (The doors were built nearly 30 years ago, so when I failed to open it this way, I felt a wave of disappointment at my strength, but got over it pretty quickly since the scenario called for quick action). 

So I did what I always do in a moment of pure panic at age 28.

I called my mother.

"Mom!! The boys locked themselves in the bathroom!" I said while I tried to jimmy rig a hanger to reach through the door and turn on the lights for my now glass-breaking decibel-screaming children.

And she did what she always does because she's my mom. She hung up and drove to my house.

Seconds later, I finally got the boys to calm down by saying in a shaky voice:

"Boys - mommy's right here. I'm right here."

Probably it looked really creepy what with my voice right on the other side of the door and just my hand reaching in grasping at air, but I tried.

And they responded a bit. Their crazy cries went to ghasps for air.

"And Mommy's going to get you out," I said, thinking, "How in the heck am I going to get you out?" I went back to my work with the hanger, cursing the fact that I wasn't MacGayver. Or my friend Kim. My friend Kim once fixed a dent in a car with a towel and a spoon.

Really, had I been calm from the beginning, this may have worked out a lot faster, because when I started to calm down and talk to the boys while I slid the hanger through the door, Will started to walk closer, trying to reach my hand, and his little belly inched the drawer forward.

Ah ha!

"That's it Will," I said, "come here, Sweetie."

Another inch, and I could push the door open enough to get my elbow in. He walked a bit closer, and at last! Two children! Two crying, puffy-faced, scared-of-the-dark children who hadn't eaten any VapoRub! They ran at me and hugged my legs and tried to crawl up me to wrap their arms around my neck.

I hugged them tight, and they were over me in about 30 seconds and decided they wanted to play outside. Sully just had a bruise on his forehead and a scratch on his nose earned during all of the excitement.

All in all, the whole situation lasted about 3 minutes, but they were the longest minutes of my life. Probably near the amount of time you'd have to get in and out of a bank robbery. But I'll never know. Two boys are enough excitement for me.

Macaroni and Cheese Please

My children would eat Panera's Macaroni and Cheese if it fell onto the back of a rabid racoon who was getting ready to jump in the sewer. This is why I have to keep an eye out for raccoons. Well, that and I'm totally freaked out by those creepy little animals and their beady eyes and the thought that when they look at me they know that I'm 3" shorter than I told the people at the Department of Transportation.

Anyway, the boys love Panera's Macaroni and Cheese so much, on more than one occassion on one of my "I'm going to go nuts soon!" days we've scooped them up, driven to the mall, and strolled them straight in line where I say:

"Giant Mac and Cheese please."

Normally, this works out well, but the other day, when I said, "I'm going to go nuts soon!" and we scooped the kids up and I tried to make them look halfway presentable and said:

"Giant Mac and Cheese please."

The woman behind the counter had the audacity to say:

"We're out."

I stood there, completely befuddled for a minute. What? Out!? Out of Mac and Cheese! I looked frantically at my children and back at her and she looked at me like a prison guard and that's when I knew that woman didn't have children because she would have recognized "frantic mother about to jump ship" face and instead, she just raised her eyebrows and said:

"There's 500 calories in a small dish, you know."

Um. Double what? Stop talking prison guard lady! I already feed my kids Eggos you don't need to tell me how bad Mac and Cheese is - and hello! Take it off your menu if it's so evil. (Editor's note: Please do not remove Mac and Cheese from your menu or I'm likely to die. I love it nearly as much as my children).

I glared a glare at that woman I normally reserve for my children when they start food fights at dinner (who knew 18-month-olds knew about food fights by the way - this is another post for sure).

"We don't want anything then," I said. Though I looked incredibly forlornly at a chocolate chip cookie. And she shrugged at me and I said:

"Except that Cobblestone," in sheer  panic I thought I would walk away without the two pound muffin I was fairly certain God plopped down from heaven into the hands of a Panera baker just for me that morning.

Trust me, I tried to look grumpy when she handed me that muffin, but I think I looked like a kid in a candy store because it was all sorts of deliciousness wrapped into one. Then I gave the muffin to John and the boys while I went into a store. Mistake. I came back and there wasn't much muffin left and Will and Sully looked like they'd been dipped in a vat of frosting and cinnamon. I almost licked their cheeks to get what was left.

Sigh.

Until tomorrow ...

I don't know what got into me, but at least the car's clean.

So I offered to clean out John's car today, and while normally, I would take a lot of credit for being so thoughtful, I couldn't really do that in this instance because the juice box stains and foreign substances sliding around in the back at sharp turns that used to be Graduates Puffs were about 98% my fault.

"We could borrow my parent's shop vac," I said on our way back from a trip in town today. We both looked over our shoulder into the backseat and I think even the boys were shaking their heads at me.

"Honey," John said. "This thing needs an industrial-strength vacuum.

Taking a second look, I had to agree. After getting the boys down today, I started with the easy stuff, a little Armor All and Windex. And resigned myself to the hard stuff. The industrial-strength vacuum.

"Don't sweat!" John yelled at me as I pulled out of the drive, heading for the car wash.

Don't sweat? Was that a joke? He should know not to joke with me about sweat by now (one time, in fifth grade during a tennis lesson, my instructor told me I sweat like a man. While this is true, I highly recommend if male, you don't say something similar to a female - it will stick with them for life).

Ten minutes later, I was sweating like a pig, and I didn't care that while I was hauling that vacuum into the depths of hell in the backseat of our car, my grandma panties were likely hanging out for the world to see (cleaning out cars calls for grandma panties - nobody wants to tackle that work in a thong. Actually, I don't want to tackle anything in a thong - that situation has uncomfortable written all over it).

Here's the thing. While wrestling that behemoth vacuum around the car and whiling away quarters like I was playing slot machines, I realized whoever invented those vacuums must have had children. Those things could suck up a small adult who wasn't paying attention, let alone the remnants of a PB&J sandwich or a sad little bug (I accidentally squashed a bug in the car on the way to the car wash - I"m still too sad to talk about it for long periods of time because I broke his little wing and he couldn't get anywhere and when it finally looked like he had hope and had turned over I accidentally scooped him up in the vacuum while I cleaned the doors. This bug had bad luck written all over him with a clutz like me in charge today).

When I was done and had sweat through my tank top and my hair was falling out all over and I'd spoken enough cuss words to sail legitimately, I thought, these are the moments when you run into an ex-boyfriend or a girl who hated your guts in high school.

So I hopped in the car and drove home immediately.

Before I go, let me say, here's to you, all parents who have tackled the interior of your car with only your bare hands and a hint of insanity. Next time, I'm saving up and having that puppy detailed.

Until tomorrow ...