Last year I was locked out of the house – intentionally – by the youngest child, Callum, who was only two and a half at the time. His moves were calculated, determined and three steps ahead of mine. How can it be that a two year old can out smart me and deny me entrance to my own house?
Callum, Lachlan and I were sitting on the couch when, suddenly, I felt the need to visit the toilet. Upon entering the loo I saw that we were out of toilet paper, so I went to the garage, where the extras are kept, to retrieve a roll. Lachy followed me and within seconds the garage door was shut behind us by Callum, who was on the other side of the door. Click! I knew that sound well, it was the engaging of the lock. Shit!
Not to fear. I am the adult here. Callum is easily bribed by the offer of a lolly or icypole if he’s negotiating hard that day. I knocked on the door.
“Callum. Open the door please sweetie,” I said, my voice gentle and full of love.
“No.” His answer was instant.
“Callum, please sweets. Be a good boy for mummy and open the door.” Yeah, any moment he’ll cave.
“No.” Another instant answer.
I knocked on the door again, a little louder this time, but not loud enough to wake everyone else up. He’s just playing hard ball, waiting for me to offer a reward/bribe.
“Cal, gorgeous little man. Please open the door for mum,” I said. “I’ll give you a lolly.”
“NO.” He didn’t even think about it. Not even two seconds to consider my offer.
“Alright Cal, two lollies. Just open the door please,” I said, my need to pee reflected in my voice.
Shit! (internal thought only)
So I belted on the door harder.
“Cal, open this door!”
Belt, belt, belt with the palm of my hand.
“Callum, open this door, now!”
Shity, shit, shit. (another internal thought)
Both the side laundry and back doors were unlocked, but I’d have to open the motorised garage door, which could wake Jason up. But there was no option. There was no other way out of the garage unless I could flatten myself to pancake proportions and slip under the door. The motorised door creaked and groaned its way upwards.
Lachy and I walked in through the side gate and around to the laundry. Just as I was about to open it I hear ‘click’. Callum locked the door. He was standing inside, smiling at me. Little shit.
So I shimmied over the half fence that keeps the dogs away from the washing line, under the assumption that Jason had secured it to the wall, that it wasn’t a ‘moving’ fence. I was wrong. It leaned to one side and almost fell on top of me, leaving a huge scratch and instant bruise down the back of my thigh. Ouch.
Callum then unlocked the laundry door, poked his head out and smiled at us.
“Quick Lachy, run inside before he closes the door,” I said.
Click! The door was locked again.
“Ok, just stand next to the door, he might let you in. I’ll go to the back door and get in that way,” I said.
So I get to the back door and guess what? Callum has locked it. Premeditated! He locked the only remaining open door in the house in anticipation of me trying to gain entry through it. Smart arse.
By that stage my bladder was bursting and the only alternative open to me was to wee in the garden, like a dog. Great, the neighbours would see me tinkling in the shrubs. No thanks. I’d pee myself before that happened.
Callum was standing a few feet away from the back door as he smiled and waved at me. I was fuming, crossing my legs like a four year old, and swearing under my breath.
“Open the door, Callum!” I demanded.
He shook his head from side to side and just as my bladder was about to exlpode, my little saviour, Lachlan, ran in and opened the door. Callum had let him on the laundry door, but didn’t count in his loyalty to me.
I hugged Lachy (quickly), promised him a lolly and sprinted to the toilet.
The moral of this story? Never, ever, underestimate a two year old with a wicked sense of humour because even though they are cute, squishy and little, they have the enormous capacity to make an absolute idiot out of you.