My house offered other modern amenities, like the old-style lock and skeleton key on each door in the house.  Unlike America, where we simply twist a knob, or push in a button to lock the door; in Ireland they still used these removable, old-fashioned keys.  That’s very quaint when you have adults in the house.  However, for a one and three-year old, these keys look like toys!  When I first moved in, I first failed to recognize this brewing key situation.  I hadn’t really noticed that the landlord had left many of the keys stationed in each door lock.  I suppose this is reasonable, as when you want to lock a door, you simply twist the key.  Handy!  However, that also made it very easy access for little kids to pluck it from its warm-key-home, since the key was at eye level for them.  Naturally, keys started to vanish.  After a few weeks, I realized that I had better collect all the keys and hide them, or else lose them all and give the landlord yet another reason to hate me more.

Even after collecting the keys, however, I realized I needed a few strategic keys for places like my office and my bedroom.  My not-soon-enough-ex husband was randomly visiting and I didn’t want him to see certain rooms!  However, the rest could be stored.

At Christmas time, when my parents were there, my father went around and tested all the keys in the doors.  I asked him to label the various keys, so I could readily replace them into their precious door homes when I left.  After a thorough analysis, my father concluded that I was missing some keys, and some keys were duplicates.  When I advised the landlord that some keys were merely duplicates, and that she was missing a few keys she was none-too-pleased.  I framed it as her fault.  It was a joyous moment of putting the blame on her, yet knowing full well we were the culprits.

Even though I had managed to hide the bulk of the keys, I still made a critical mistake. In the spring of 2001, I left the office key in the door one day.  Normally, if I used it, I would then place it above the doorframe.  It was nighttime, and I was getting the kids ready for their bath.  For some reason, we went downstairs for a minute.   I saw my youngest child go into the office and shut the door.  As I saw the door shut, in super-slow-mo-NFL-style, it dawned on me that she might lock the door, if she saw the key.  I turned and started heading for the door.  Before I could reach it, I heard the lock turning over.  She had locked herself in.  She was naked, as she was getting ready for the bath.  And, at this point, she was not potty-trained.  And the house was freezing.

I drop my head, place my hands on the door in a gesture of despair and took a deep breath.

“Sweetheart, I need you to twist the key back in the other direction,” I squeeked in my I’m-a-totally-calm-Mommy voice.

“Mama,” was my reply

“OK, all you need to is twist the key back.  Just twist it honey, just like you did a minute ago.”  I pause to listen.

This went on for 5 minutes, which felt like 50 minutes.

Apparently, when you’re twenty-months old, “twist in the other direction” doesn’t mean a lot.  Meanwhile her sister, standing next to me, is starting to cry.

“Mommy!  Get her out!  Mommy!” she said in escalating cries.  I think she’s afraid we’ve lost Zoe and we’ll never get her back.  Frankly, I’m pretty worried too.  There’s no key for me to use to open it, and so there’s no way in.  I know I’ll eventually get her out, but at what cost?  Will she get chilled in our house of eternal frigidity?  Will she soil the carpet?  Will I have to break the door down?  Will she get injured, if I need to break the door down?  My mind is racing, and I must act fast.

I run to the kitchen and grab a screwdriver.  I was thinking that I could take off the handle and open the door that way.  I had done that in the US before, and figured that somehow the situation simply had to be analogous.  I quickly begin to unscrew the lock.  As I take out a screw, I hear a “ka-chunk”, and the whole handle and lock crumbles in my hand, with the door still locked.  Boy, I made the wrong call.  Totally not analogous.  And, to make matters worse, the key has fallen out on her side of the door.  Both kids are now crying and I’m getting more desperate.

I grab the telephone and called my parents in the States.  Fortunately, my father was familiar with these locks due to his Christmas testing.  When I explained the situation, he told me that my only option was to bust the door down.  Oh good, I rumbled to myself!  My landlord is going to love this.  How am I going to explain breaking her door in half?  I’m sure she’ll seethe at me and make insinuating remarks about my American-ness equaling ineptitude.  Why it was that she was in my mind at this moment was equal parts ludicrous and infuriating.

I kneel so I can look through the door handle opening.

“Zoe, baby, please go crawl under the big desk.  Do you see the desk behind you?  That’s right.  Go crawl under it.  As far back as you can go.”

Zoe is in full meltdown, but somehow she gets the message.  She crawls under the desk, and I can see her through the peep hole of the lock, rocking back and forth.  I take the opportunity while I’m on my knees to say a long prayer.

“Lord, seriously?  Just please protect her.  Damn the damn door in this damn house.  Amen”  It seemed like a really strong, on-point prayer.

I tell my other daughter to move back.  I take another deep breath, turn away from the door, and with all my might, I throw the full weight of my butt near the door handle. I channeled my inner-warrior. Good thing I’m not a tiny person!  The door flung open and smacked against the inside wall.

Amazingly, there was only minor damage to the inside wall, the door hinge where the lock was, and even my butt.  No one was hurt, and another crisis solved.  I was getting good at this.