Twice is Enough — Daniela V Gitlin

The door from the garage into the house was locked. We hadn’t had a key to this door for years. Don’t ask. Which is why we never turned the little thingie on the inside knob to the locked position. How had that happened? I shook the doorknob again. No luck.

“Are we locked out?” asked Son, aged nine, standing beside me.

“Yeah.” I sighed. “Dad left after us. Fingers crossed he forgot to lock the back door.”

He dashed out of the garage. Gosh, he’s getting big. Look at those shoulders. I followed and watched him leap onto the deck, trot to the slider door, grab the handle with both hands, plant his feet and give a mighty heave. No luck. He looked at me and shrugged.

“What now?” I sighed, not expecting him to make a suggestion. But he did.

“Mom, Dad forgot his keys before, and we couldn’t get in, just like now,” he said. “He took the screen out of the living room window.”

My head jerked back—What! I raised my eyebrows, “Yeah?”

“The window was open,” he said. “Dad got on one knee, told me to step on his hand, and when I did, he pushed me through it!” He giggled.

I could see it and laughed. “Did you land on your head?”

“Yeah. On that little table by the couch. The lamp fell off.” he said, looking worried, like maybe he shouldn’t be telling me this story. “I put it back. It wasn’t broken or anything.”

“Better the lamp than your head! Then what?”

“Dad told me to unlock the front door and let him in.”

“Did he put the screen back?”

“Yeah, it was a little bent, but he got it in. We could take it out again.”

“Okay.” He ran and I walked to the front of the house. The window was open. I studied the screen. So did he. He stepped up to it and wriggled it from opposing corners, where the rims were a bit bowed. I helped, and we got it off.

“Okay! In you go. Try not to land on your head. Ready?”

He nodded, serious. I knelt on one knee and cupped my hands. He stepped on with one foot—Yowza! He was heavy! I stood up— Oof! In he went, his little tushy waggling in my face as he eased down onto his hands. I pushed his feet over the edge. He stood up, pointed at the untouched end table, and made a muscle. I clapped.

At dinner, Hubby chuckled and shook his head. “The one time I remembered to lock the slider! Murphy’s Law strikes again.”

The next morning, I called a locksmith and took the damaged screen in for repair. Third time’s the charm only if you’re a slow learner.