Back in the day we were quite the DINK fun-loving partyers (doesn’t everyone have home brew tapped off the kitchen sink?) But things change when you have kids. Especially when you have kids who are allergic to sleep and want to stay up and play all night. We do still occasionally entertain and this St. Patrick’s day was one of those occasions because Burp Rag’s husband makes a black and tan like nobody’s business. The party was lots of fun with kids running wild and toys everywhere. We were busy cooking and talking.
I had thought Toddler was playing in his brother’s room with the other kids when someone brought it to my attention that the bathroom door had been closed for at least 20 minutes with no response from within except the loud sounds of splashing and plunking. After calling through the door several times I timidly opened it to find Toddler, completely soaked and dunking toys and toilet paper happily in the toilet. He had wrapped some Schleich animals in toilet paper mummy-style and been bathing them in the sink. Apparently the toilet was full.
After cleaning up him and the bathroom I returned to the party. Not more than 10 minutes later someone told me they had shut my bedroom door to keep the kids out and that it now wouldn’t open. Chicken Little overheard this and started shouting “My blankies are in there and I need them RIGHT NOW!” Finally after 5 minutes of escalating hysterics his father trudged down to the basement for the toolbox.
This attracted most of the male species at the party. They all grabbed fresh beers and huddled together around the door. We’ve lived in this 1940’s era warbox cottage for almost 4 years now and sadly this is the first time our bedroom door has actually been closed.
So there they all were, rubbing their chins and discussing options. I tried not to listen because the testosterone was way too high for my comfort level. Occasionally words would drift down the hallway. I remember hearing things like “bobby pin” and “credit card”. Although the door knob was off the door still wouldn’t budge. When I heard “running start” and “shoulder blow” I went to the far end of the house and focused my attention on consoling Chicken Little.
Loud banging ensued and lasted about 30 minutes. In the end they had to remove the door jamb which my poor husband had spent last summer lovingly puttying and painting as part of our put lipstick on a pig home restoration project.
Loud cheers and more beers. Chicken Little emerged triumphantly clutching a handful of blankies, his trusted friends, once baby burprags with days of the week on them. It just might take us until next St. Patrick’s day to entertain again.