i've made a few comments pertaining to our duplex and how much it sucks to be a landlord. we had to end the lease agreement with our previous renters because they weren't paying. (rent not negotiable? whaaa?) oh, the horror when i was finally able to start cleaning up the place. so, i have had to perform lots of patch work to the walls, replace the locks, repaint every room because of the smoking which wasn't allowed, the list just goes on and on. and with ben gone, i didn't have my usual bat-my-eyes-you-do-it-bett
last monday was great: finished the last of the touch up painting; jack stayed busy with his matchbox cars; changed out some outlet covers; did the last of the painting in the kitchen - again, all in all i felt i made some headway. tuesday rolls around, i decide to tackle the ceiling in the master bedroom. they either did some serious smoking after, well, you know, or they had candles burning while, well, you know or maybe i don't know, but whatever the case was, the ceiling was in desperate need of paint. i'm 95% done with it when i hear jack has gone into the bathroom (roughly 5 feet from where i am) and shut the door behind him. as long as it took me to walk the 5 feet, he had already managed to pull out a drawer from the cabinet and perfectly lock himself in the bathroom. i laugh. jack LOVES to pull out drawers, open cupboards and as much as he likes to open them, he also LOVES to slam them closed. so i think, no biggie, i tell him to push the drawers closed at least 30 times a day... "jackie, PUSH." "hey, bud, can you PUSH it closed?" "PUSH, bubba." nothing. but, i do hear him slamming the toilet seat lid repeatedly. i slide my fingers underneath the door thinking i can entice him over and then maybe he'll understand my instructions for push more clearly. ha.
i get down on my hands and knees and peek under the door. ok. not only has he pulled the drawer out, he's pulled it far enough out that it is half on the floor, half in the cabinet. [expletive!] there's no way he's picking it up and pushing it back in. so, i kinda start to panic. lots. i kinda start to feel this rather large lump in my throat. i call sean. i call josh. i call rob. i call my pops. no one answers. apparently the rest of the world are locked in their bathrooms without cell phones. finally, sean calls and says he's on his way over. then i call the jenkins and they run down the list of things i've already thought of but won't work (push the door harder. i am! take the door off the hinges. they're on the inside!) i consider the ol' 911 call and decide against having my son swept away by social services. "really, i'm a GOOD mother!" finally, dad comes through with "is it a hollow door, just take a hammer to it!" so, i quickly take down the baby gate that has been protecting jackie from the 13 laminate steps of doom. i run downstairs, grab my wonderful, glorious hammer and go to town on the door.
within 20 seconds, my son is in my arms, completely terrified from the hammering. 20 seconds prior, he was completely content with splashing in this weird but rather large water bowl. ew. with my dad still on the phone, i stand up to put the hammer on the shelf and turn back around in time to see my dear sweet son take a step off the stairs.
i scream. i throw my phone. or maybe i threw my phone and then screamed. i race down and grab my son who is now blue in the lips because he's screaming so hard but has yet to take a breath or make a sound. i'm hysterical. jack's hysterical. sean shows up with arm loads of tools to possibly fix a 747. he's relieved that jack's out and thought i was merely crying because i was so happy to have him in my arms. partly true, but i hadn't been able to share my horrible mother moment #2 in less than a 20 minute period.
we all get calmed down. jack is back to his cars, back to making laps in his *new* empty arena, jack seems perfectly normal. meanwhile, i'm having thoughts of natasha richardson-like brain injuries. no messing around, jackie and i load up to check out the emergency room of mat-su regional. we spend the next 3.5 hours chillin at the er. the nurses loved him; giving him stickers, 4 different ones took turns holding him, cooing with him, tickling his belly. the doc checked him out, consoled me, informed me that accidents happen and that this will be one of many er visits (thanks) with a busy-body like him.
so that was tuesday. did God really think i needed to be tested more? especially in the bowel department? does anyone? i guess it is all a learning experience. just when i feel like i'm so careful with him, i get that double whammy. it just shows that it can happen to anyone. i really struggle with this because i think of all the times he's cut his lip from falling or he's tripped over his own feet, whacked himself with a toy or he's walked straight into the couch when he's trying to look behind himself (my fav)... these are the sort of accidents i can feel ok about. i can comfort him and wipe his tears away, give him a cookie and send him on his way, but to think i was the one to cause his pain... it's too much to stomach. i have to just trust all the stories that others have shared about similar situations ("this stuff will happen"), learn from it (but never forget it) and let it go. jackie is fine and that's all i need to think about.
so please don't judge. oh, and i haven't stepped foot in the duplex since. ben can do the rest.
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