To the Rescue

We adopted Roxie, our Shepherd-mix, almost four years before Meghan was born and even now, thirteen months later, Roxie is still not sure whether she approves of this no-longer-new addition to the family. Roxie, like a toddler when a baby sibling joins the family, acts like she is competing with Meghan for my attention and affection.

It was morning. Roxie, as was her practice, has followed me into Meghan’s room and has laid her big, hairy, 100-pound body down on the floor at my feet as I change Meghan’s diaper and get her dressed for the day.

Roxie’s eyes follow my every move. I finish with Meghan and set her on the floor. Roxie’s eyes follow my every move. That’s why I’m surprised when Roxie doesn’t follow me out of the bedroom and into the adjacent bathroom to wash my hands. It’s unlike her. But then again, maybe she’s making an effort to bond with Meghan by spending some alone time with her. Yeah, right. A mom can dream.

Somehow, during the minute it takes me to walk ten feet into the bathroom, wash and dry my hands, and return to the doorway of Meghan’s bedroom, the door has been shut. I surmise that Meghan, who has recently gotten in the habit of shutting doors throughout the house, has probably gone and shut her own bedroom door.

But when I reach for the doorknob, it won’t move. It is locked.

Hmm…

Oh, my God. It’s locked!  

What should I do?

“Meghan,” I call through the door. “Can you open the door for Mommy?” The door has just a regular round knob. To lock it from inside the room, all you have to do is press a little pea-sized button that is just to the side of the knob. It would be easy to lock the door by mistake. To unlock the door, all Meghan will have to do is turn the knob. I cross my fingers.

“Meghan, can you open the door, please?” I repeat with the same results: nothing. Meghan has been demonstrating her skill at shutting doors for weeks now, but I can’t think of a single time I’ve witnessed her actually opening a door.

Through the door I heard Roxie begin to cry, wanting out of the room. I can tell she’s standing just on the other side of the door, her nose pressed against the crack that separates the door from its frame. I’ve seen her do it a million times.

Now Meghan starts to cry too. I sense that she’s not crying because she wants out, like Roxie. She’s probably just crying because Roxie is. Hopefully. Trying to emulate her big sister?

I return to the bathroom and start rummaging through drawers in a desperate search for a bobby pin to pick the door lock. If I find one, I will hopefully be able to insert it into the knob to unlock it like we used to be able to do on the knobs we had in our house when I was a kid. I’m getting increasingly anxious as the pitiful noises from the bedroom continue. I can’t find a bobby pin. I knew it was hopeless before I even started searching. I haven’t worn a bobby pin in years. Maybe a small barrette? Something long and skinny. Nothing in the bathroom.

I hurry to the garage in search of a long, skinny nail. I return with several nails with the potential to save the day. No. One after another, each one fails. Panic.

I think about another way, other than through the door, to get into Meghan’s bedroom. Her room has a window to the backyard. We just recently had it replaced because the old one would not shut properly. There is no way I’ll be able to direct Meghan to climb up on her changing table, turn the lever on the window and then slide it open if I can’t even get her to open the door! The only way through the window is if I break the glass.

I go to the bedroom next door to Meghan’s, our guest bedroom, which has a telephone. I call Pat at work. I don’t know how he’ll be able to help me over the phone but I’m desperate.

“Why don’t you call the fire department?” Pat suggests. “Don’t call 911; just call the station directly.” We live less than a mile from a Cal Fire station. This is an excellent idea! Pat goes online at his office to find the fire station’s phone number.

It’s after I disconnect from Pat that I realize the crying coming from the next room has stopped. Is that a good sign or a bad one? Maybe they’ve both fallen asleep.

I dial the phone again, this time to call the local Cal Fire station.

“Hi, my name is Jill Foley, I live just up the road.” I go on to explain how my daughter has locked herself in her bedroom with her dog and I can’t get them out.

“What would you like us to do? Do you want us to come over?” the man asks.

Well, of course! Duh!

“Yes, please.” We disconnect after I give him my address and a description of my house.

Within just a few minutes, a big ol’, big ol’ fire engine shows up in front of my house. Really? Don’t they have a paramedic pick-up to send out in this kind of situation?

I open the door to five good-looking fire fighters. Firemen are always so handsome, why is that? This is neither the time nor place to be making such observations, I scold myself. I lead them down the hallway to the door to Meghan’s bedroom.

The silence in Meghan’s bedroom now feels ominous.

One fireman asks another fireman – the one holding a toolbox, I notice – for a specific tool. In less than fifteen seconds the first fireman is able to unlock the door. But he doesn’t open it right away. Instead, he turns to me and asks if they have to worry about the dog. I assure him that Roxie is not aggressive.

He swings the door open.

And, like a bat out of hell, Roxie comes tearing out of the bedroom, past all the firemen crowded in the hallway. She reaches the back door then doubles back, through the firemen, to jump spastically around my legs. I’ve never seen Roxie move so fast. Running as though she wouldn’t be able to suffer through one more minute of being cooped up alone with the new kid.

I look over the shoulder of the first fireman and see Meghan. Sitting on an orange fabric cube, facing her closet, with a book on her lap. Safe and sound. She casually turns her head to look at the commotion in her doorway. Her expression says, “Why all the noise? Can’t you see I’m reading? Do you want something? How can I help you?”

Relief. I pick Meghan up and introduce her to her saviors. Roxie is being spoiled with rubs and pats from the fire crew. A happy camper. Meghan seems unimpressed with the whole situation. (It will be less than a year from now that Meghan will accidentally call 911 sending the state police to our door. That too, did not seem to impress her.)

The first fireman demonstrates how he unlocked the door so I will know how to do it myself should I be locked out of a room again in the future. Note to self: Buy bobby pins.

A couple of days later, Meghan, Roxie and I deliver a couple dozen store-bought sugar cookies – I know, I’m so lame – to the fire station as a thank you for their rescue efforts. I also presented them with a homemade “thank you” card – at least it was homemade – with a beautiful photograph of Meghan and Roxie sitting next to each other. Happy siblings. The thing is, the photo is a lie, created by me in Photoshop. I could not get Meghan and Roxie to sit next to each other to save my life! As soon as I got one of them seated, the other would take off. Finally spent, I opted to take individual pictures of each of them and then, after hours spent in front of my computer, I merged them together. The new photo, while not perfect, at least looks kind of like an authentic captured moment.  Boy, what I won’t do to present a fake face of my family to the world.