As I have become more experienced with this parenting thing the follies and mistakes have become few and far between. A fall here and there, maybe a bottle or some lunch that is too hot, but for the most part I would like to think I have been pretty successful thus far. Unfortunately, I think I may have cost myself the 'Father of the Year' award yesterday.
I'll precede this story with a little bit of background. Our apartment, although very nice on the inside, is, in fact, located in the ghetto. This means that there are more than a few adverse things that we have to deal with on a daily basis. One of these things is an absentee landlord who lives in California and does literally nothing to improve the apartment. She just collects the rent and pretends we don't exist. When we moved in we had to paint, replace all of the window fixtures and replace most of the light bulbs. Our fridge broke this summer and it took two weeks to get a new one. Yeah. It's like that.
As a result, there are several minor problems with the apartment that we have not been able to take care of. Our bathtub leaks, our toilet is partially made of wood and we have the most deplorable, dangerous gas stove in America. In addition, for some reason we only have keys for about half of the locks on our doors. The back door to our apartment has three different dead bolts on it, but only one of them works- and we don't have a key for it. Our front door has a lock and a dead bolt, but we only have a key for the lock. Not the dead bolt. To make matters worse, we don't have keys to the back door on the first floor that lets us in to our stairwell or a key to the door that lets us in to the basement from outside. You can see where this is going.
Yesterday morning we were going about our normal routine. The baby had just eaten breakfast and was watching one of her videos while I was cleaning up and doing the dishes from the night before. This literally happens every day. She had taken a dump that morning and I had just cleaned the cat box, so rather than leave the trash in the back hall way like I normally would, I decided to take it out right away and put it in the out door trash barrel. I grabbed my coat and my keys and went downstairs. I left the bolt on my back door unlocked and the back door to the hallway wide open to ensure that I could get back in. This is not a long trip. One flight of stairs and five steps to the trash can. I brought the trash to the barrel and was walking back up the stairs to the door when a gust of wind blew it shut- just out of my reach.
I turned the knob, only to realize it was locked. Dammit. I knew deep down that the dead bolt on the front door was still locked but I decided to try it anyway. I was right. Uh oh. I frantically tried all of my keys on both doors. None of them worked. This is how I learned that the cellar door was locked as well.
I will admit that this was not the first time I had locked myself out of the house. I did the exact same thing about a month ago, but that time I was by myself and I did not have my keys. I was let in by my neighbor after just a few minutes. No such luck this time.
Now furious at my landlord and the Realtor that gave us the keys, I walked back to the front door and thought to myself 'The back door lock is held together with one screw. I have to be able to break in to my own house.'Nope.
I spent the next 10 minutes trying to break the lock to no avail. Now, at this point it is important to note that I was able to pry the door open enough to see the baby. She was calmly sitting in her seat, strapped in, in no danger. I knew I had about 15 minutes before the video ended, so the race was on.
I kept trying to get in through various methods, but I just couldn't get the door to budge. I was covered in sweat, extremely pissed off and pondering what would be cheaper to fix, the door if I broke it down or a basement window if I kicked it in and climbed down.
It is also important to note that when I had initially locked myself out I knocked on my downstairs neighbor's door right away with no luck. I went down and tried it again after failing at breaking the lock. Still nothing. I knew their kids were in school and their car was not there, so I assumed they were in work, or at class or something. Ha.
I was at the end of my rope and beginning to panic, ready to flag down a passing motorist to call a locksmith when I heard my neighbor open her door. I sprinted down the stairs only to see her quickly shut it when she saw me. I yelled 'HEY! HEY! (Neighbor) I need your help!' Visibly pissed she opened the door, groggy and wearing pajamas, and looked at me. She did not speak.
'I don't have a key to my dead bolt and I am locked out. Do you mind just unlocking that back door so I can get in?'
(Audible sigh) 'Ok.' Slams the door.
Wow. Ok. Really? I get that I may have woke you up and I get that you are lazy and anti-social and hide in your apartment when other people are around, but you know that I have a baby upstairs and you know that the back door is locked. Give me a break.
She unlocked the back door and went back inside before I had time to walk around the house, so I did not get a chance to thank her. Not that I was really that in to it at all anyway. I went back upstairs and the baby was clueless as to what had gone on and only a little upset because her video had ended and she wanted to get out of the chair.
So, there was a happy ending. No one got hurt, I didn't have to break down the door. Everything was cool, right? Wrong. For some reason for the rest of the day I could not shake the feeling that I had narrowly avoided disaster. What would I have done if the neighbor wasn't home? How does someone do something so dumb? Not a good moment on my parenting permanent record.
I also felt kind of bad for waking up the neighbor, as she was clearly not a happy woman because of it. You know what though? She deserves it. The woman does not have a job. Does not go to school more than a night or two a week. When her kids are home she makes a ton of noise and when they aren't she stays inside all day getting stoned and listening to Radiohead (something I used to do when I was like 22. She is at least 32). So sorry to interrupt. Proceed.
Anyway, calling the Realtor and getting more keys is now on my short list of things to do- although I doubt she will call me back. Just like with the fridge. That means it is time to call the slumlord in California, and you had better be damn sure that I'll 'forget' about that three hour time difference too.
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