I had Lucy and Audrey for the whole weekend. Me and my girls. We had a great time. Went to a street festival, had our faces painted, hit up the Please Touch Museum, slumber parties every night; I cherished every moment I had with them, so happy to have consistent, uninterrupted attention. Lucy and I were eating our breakfast on the back patio, because that was super cool, and little tiny Audrey reached her hand up and slammed the sliding door leaving her locked in, and Lucy and me locked out. I panicked. Big time. We had no shoes, still in our jammies, with an 18 month old stuck in the house. We ran around to the front (walking nearly a block from the back) and tried to get Audrey to open the simple knob of the front door but she couldn't reach. She began to cry. Lucy was jumping up and around the planters, running close to the curb and running back. She was unphased. I called mom and dad. Maybe a neighbor has a key. No answer. No answer. No answer.
I talked to Audrey through the mail slot, trying to calm her. Lucy- still bouncing around out front. I felt defeated. How could I let this happen? This is what happens with her mom. The neglectful one. The one who let Audrey wander three blocks away until a friendly stranger returned her. Hours had gone by without notice of her absence. This doesn't happen to me. I'm responsible. I love her. And now she's crying on the floor, pushing furniture against the door to try and reach. Poor Audrey.
I finally realized I had a spare set of keys at my own house. My faithful roomate brought them over and we got into the house. Mom did not return my call for 4 hours. Not minding a single text saying it was an emergency.
I talked with Audrey about playing with doors and the dangers of pinched fingers and being stranded. We cried and held each other.
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