Monday, September 26, 2011

Childhood Trauma Payback

When my brothers and I were little, we'd often get in trouble. My parents, being the lovingly gentle people they are, used timeouts in favor of spanking. We were never put in a corner (that's degrading). Our bedroom was not an option either (we might have fun in there after all). Timeout was in the bathroom. Its relatively safe and utterly boring.
A couple of weeks ago, Max locked himself in the bathroom. Every key in the house, a hammer, a wrench, jacks, a nun, a unicycle and 40 minutes later, he was out. He had eaten a peanut butter & jelly sandwich, passed through the slatted window, while in there. Boy would die in the wild. The owner came with a key she'd forgotten to give us, finally ending the ordeal. Since that time we haven't been able to shut our door. The lock was broken in the process. Pooping happens at lightening speed, hoping no one will bump into the door, swinging it open for full exposure (and inevitably, a blog post announcing it to the world--err... all seven of you).
Today, in an effort to fix the door, hours of childhood trauma were paid back in a sweet coincidence. My mother put herself in timeout. The door wouldn't open. "Josh!" she called, desperate. As soon as we realized what had happened, we came with the key. To no avail. Max began to panic. His salvation had been that key. And now it wasn't working. Grandma was in a serious jam. He lost all hope. As the adults consulted about what to do, listing our resources, laughing while we worked, Max disappeared. We decided to unhinge the door, so passed a hammer through that same slatted window. Max appeared and slid what he thought would liberate my mother, under the door. One of her credit cards. Works every time in Hollywood, why not?
The incarcerated.
Relief came when, under bright lights and with the Paparazzi on his tail, Josh kicked the door down, saving my sweet madre (who had taken off the hinges). My hero saved the day. Yet again.
My hero!
The release.
Were you wounded, Grandma?

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