Friend Two and Singing Love stopped by my house last week, fruit basket (replete with grapes, citrus and biscotti) and bottle of wine (Zinfandel) in hand. I had just put the Things Three down, so was more than happy to let them in. “We’re here to celebrate New Year’s with you,” said Singing Love. “We know you didn’t get to go out or really celebrate.”
This is true, of course. Part of being a single parent to three children is that a: the opportunities for fun activities like drinking, pool and sexual congress are limited; and b: almost all opportunities require the hiring of a sitter; and c: even the hiring of a sitter will only get you drinking and pool. Sexual congress is almost always out of the question unless the cherubs are with their other parent, or at a friend’s house, or you sexual congress away in the back of a Subaru, which is sophomoric and lame. And I know. Because I’ve done it.
Point being that Singing Love was right. My New Year’s Eve consisted of homemade pizza, Cranium Cadoo, and repeated viewings of The Justice League and A Series of Unfortunate Events, followed by much gnashing of teeth as each of the Things approached exhaustion. Libations with names like “Mango-Licious-Panty-Dropper,” or drunken female dancing to “I Will Survive,” were nowhere to be found. So, a few days later, I was more than happy to let Friend Two and Singing Love in, sit them in my kitchen, and pull down the dusty wine glasses.
We sat around one end of my table, sampling grapes from the fruit basket, and drinking the wine. We talked. And talked. Thirty minutes in, we had finished the first bottle of wine, so I pulled out a second, a Shiraz* I was keeping around. We drank that while Singing Love and I discussed politics and then sex. Friend Two became very interested, suddenly, in the fruit basket, finding the price tag and tearing it off before settling on picking lint out of the cotton lining.
We were flush with the wine and conversation, so when Singing Love asked us to come outside while she had a cigarette, we agreed. Yes it was freezing. Yes it was black and dark and, yes, I have no real porch, only a carport in front of my cute 50’s ranch house. But we bundled up anyway and headed outside.
I let Friend Two and Singing Love out first, then stepped out onto the front steps, shut the door behind me. And then it clicked. Locked out.
“Guys,” I said. “We’re locked out.”
Singing Love started laughing. And then I did. I thought of calling my landlord at 11:45 on a weeknight to ask for a key. Irish Landlord is cute and an older hipster, with two teenage daughters, and I am halfway smitten with him. But I have it on authority that such cries for help to the cute older landlord can lead either to the altar or an eviction notice. Since I want neither at the moment, I decided that was a no-go.
Friend Two was nonplussed at our laughter. “Just get the extra key,” he said.
I shook my head. No extra key.
“Alright, which window should I get into?” .
“They’re locked.”
“What? They’re all locked?”
“I’m a single mother with three kids! Of course they’re all locked!”
Friend Two sighed, audibly. This was akin to his version in Hell: 20 minutes of your best friend and girlfriend engaging in tipsy sex banter, followed by getting locked out of a house in the freezing cold with no open windows, followed by said best friend and girlfriend laughing uncontrollably, probably at your expense, and being not at all helpful.
It was then that the genius idea hit me. “I can bang on a window and wake up one of the kids.”
Friend Two and Singing Love considered this for a moment, and then Friend Two walked to a window, tried to pry it open. This is because he loves the Things, and he didn’t want to take part in a mission that might frighten any one of them.
Singing Love looked at him, then turned to me. “Let’s do it,” she said. Not because she doesn’t love my kids, I’m sure, but because she wanted back in.
It should be noted here that I knew it would scar whichever kid I woke up. But I also knew that there was no other reasonable way to get into the house. My windows are new and I make sure they’re always locked. Irish Landlord, while sweet and kind, would not appreciate being roused from his bed late on a weeknight, and I didn’t even have his number on me since my cell phone was, of course, locked in the house.
This is the essence of parenting. Sure, sure, our generation has a plethora of parenting magazines to choose from. We can read, in minute detail, how to pick toys to encourage the development of language, music or mathematical skills in our Max. We can read about the newest teaching philosophies, decide if our Emma would do better in Montessori or Waldorf. We can even read about birth options, debate on epidurals and waterbirths, to our little pregnant heart’s content. But I’ve yet to read an article that has been able to delineate wisdom on how to solve the small crises parents face on a regular basis. Crises that involve the everyday minutiae that is parenting: the half-life of dirty laundry, the mind numbing repetition of diaper-feeding-diaper-sleep; the months where even sex seems impossible under the weight of all that tedium. Crises that involve a constant battle of choices, the weighing of options and costs against your kid’s well-being, against yours. Crises, in other words, that involve two bottles of wine and a set of keys on the wrong side of a locked door.
Singing Love and I went to the back gate and Friend Two soon joined us. We pried it open (it helped when Friend Two suggested, quite lucidly, “Maybe we should open it with the hinges, instead of against.” Ho, ho. He’s a funny one.). We decided that I’d go do the dirty deed (since I’m the one the one the Things Three know the best), while Singing Love and Friend Two would stay by the front door.
My bedroom enjoys a cornered window that looks out into the verdant backyard. Thing Two and Thing Three were both asleep in my room. Thing Three, being five, still sleeps with me, as she’s done since her dad and I split. And every once in awhile, Thing Two pulls up camp and heads into the Terrible Mother den. This was one of those nights where they were both in my room, and as I watched them through the window, I thought it was good they were both there. Less chance of long-lasting fear.
Let me say this. If my house were ever on fire, I think the Things Three would sleep right through the alarm. Because I banged on that damn window for 3 or 4 minutes, yelling even, “WAKE UP!” to no response. None. Unless you count Thing Three snoring, which I don’t.
“Wake up!” I yelled, and this time, I flattened my palm and hit the glass, hard. Thing Two sat up.
“It’s Mom!” I said. “Thing Two, it’s Mom! Let me in.”
Thing Two looked at me for a moment. He considered me the way one might consider an exotic animal you happen upon at the zoo. There was a moment of recognition. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.
“Thing Two!” I yelled.
He covered his head with his pillow.
This was not going as expected. I had been prepared to cash in scarring of children in exchange for a ticket into the warm house. But I hadn’t been prepared for the wanton disregard of my well being by Thing Two. I put my forehead against the glass.
I tried once more, this time with my effort aimed at the youngest. “Thing Three,” I yelled, “wake up!” I banged on the window and this time, Thing Three opened her eyes. She looked at me. Then she started crying.
“It’s Mom!” I said for the umpteenth time. “Open the front door.”
Thing Three, to her credit, chose a different route than her sibling. She pulled the covers over her head and hid.
So, to recap: one child annoyed and asleep, one child crying and traumatize, three adults locked outside. Thing One was the only kid I hadn’t tried to rouse yet, and I wasn’t about to take that tack. Who knows what response that kid, the kid who loves politics and sushi and knitting like any 8-year old going on 28 does, would’ve come up with.
“Thing Three. Go to the front door.”
Wailing.
“Please! Let me in.”
Keening, followed by the thrashing of bed linens.
At that moment, Friend Two and Singing Love must have realized what was happening, because they started knocking on the front door. Thing Three sat up. She screamed at me, then she ran into the front room, and let Friend Two and Singing Love in.
And what were her first words to her saviors? “There’s a scary woman outside.”
*tm
*How do you know this is written by a thirty-something, Oregon hipster? I don’t say “white” or “blush” or “red.” I say “Shiraz” and “Zinfandel.” And it was only through heroic restraint that I kept from including the winery and year.
