Words of Wisdom

JD’s Jailbreak April 5, 2011

Posted by Matt in family.
Tags: imprisoned at home, two year old
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I heard the first cries just before 6:00 this morning. Urgent, yet still somewhat controlled, they roused me from my slumber, dragging me from the murky depths of peace and into a world where the 2 year old is king.

As I pushed myself up from the bed, shaking the cobwebs from my sluggish brain, I tried to put together the puzzle pieces of the early morning.

Is it a kid? Yeah, it’s a kid. I have a kid. Actually I have three of them. Jesus, I have three kids.

Then, just as I started to put together the fact that the sound I was hearing was indeed being broadcast over a monitor by our youngest child, the clock struck 6:00 and the radio alarm kicked on, spewing out some god-awful female country singer warbling about a combination of a truck, alcohol, and a man that done her wrong. Wonderful. Obviously the 8 year old took it upon herself to play with the radio.

Not to be deterred, I put on my glasses and trudged up the stairs and that was when I discovered the object of our young son’s raging wail: his door was locked from the inside and he was stuck. Crap.

Me: JD, it’s okay, dude, I’m here and I’m going to get you out. OK?

JD: OK, daddy. (He calmed down for a moment to a whimper) Daddy, I’m scared.

Matt: It’s okay, man. There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m going to get you out. Hold on just a minute.

I quickly ran down the stairs and started searching frantically for a small screwdriver to unlock the door, listening as the volume and franticness of his cries steadily increased. After a few minutes, I was coming up empty and JD was losing his mind, so I shot up the stairs like I was again running bleachers at good ol’ Bro Erwin Stadium and attempted to calm him again.

Me (panting): It’s okay, I’m still here and I’m going to get you out. Give me a minute, Ok.

JD: Daddy, I’m scared!

Me: I’m going to get you out. I promise.

Charging the short hall to our girls’ room I burst through the door and gave them their normal morning reveille, albeit with a bit more urgency than usual.

Me: Girls, get up! It’s time to move. Let’s go.

I could see shapes squirming underneath the covers like some alien creature beneath the skin, moving but not surfacing.

Me (turning on the lights): Now, girls, get moving! I need your help. Now.

Bekah, our younger daughter was miraculously the first out of bed and when I told her of the situation, she dutifully went and sat at the door to JD’s room.

Me: Talk to him, honey. Try to keep him calm while I look for a screwdriver.

She looked at me with a blank, barely wakened face. But, after a few seconds she began at least speaking to him. I ran back into their room and drug the older girl from the top bunk and commanded her to do the same before running back down the stairs to search more thoroughly for the tool I needed.

Still coming up empty, I texted Diana as I rummaged through the junk-laden nooks and crannies of our kitchen and laundry room, searching for anything that might be used to release my son from his dark (he can’t reach the lights) cell. She quickly called me back and, of course, she helped me get on the right track in my pursuance of the elusive lockpick. I found a screwdriver, ran back up the stairs and went to work on the lock.

I don’t always work well under duress and there are few things more stressful than to have a two year old screaming, “Daddy, I’m scared,” while you try to free them from bondage. I worked and worked at it, jabbing the screwdriver (which was really too short) into the small hole and turning the knob back and forth, hoping to find some give in the prison door.

The girls, being the caring and concerned older sisters that they are, had already wandered off aimlessly, looking for something else to hold their attention. I told them to get dressed for school and kept at the task at hand, but it was still to no avail. Try as I might, I could not get the lock to open. So, I began running through the scenarios in my mind: Do I keep at it? Try and remove the knob? Lower my shoulder and ram the door down? Leave him until Diana (who is far more resourceful than I am) gets home and opens the door in a manner of seconds? I could almost hear him singing, “Nobody knows…,” when finally our fortunes turned.

The upstairs doorknobs in our house are far less useful than one might want. They are rickety and lose screws with some regularity, making it hard to even open the door at all. I desperately worked the screwdriver inside the hole, hoping for some miraculous discovery of the elusive catch, all the while turning the knob with abandon and shouting out marching orders to the girls as they readied themselves for the school day.

Then suddenly, something happened. I pushed on the door and somehow, someway, it opened. JD fell into my arms, exhausted from some 40 minutes of desperate crying for help. The door was still locked, but without explanation the old door knob somehow gave way and opened.

So, now all is well, but I think it may be time to replace the doorknobs with something easier to unlock…