I Need A Nanny. For Myself.

I locked myself out today, which wouldn't be all that notable had I not also locked the baby in.

Background: Baby Razor has been getting up between 5:30 and 6 a.m. for a week (instead of her usual 7:30ish). In theory I should be adjusted to this by now, but I'm still a tired wreck. But after a weekend of doing nothing, I was determined to get my ass in gear today.

So as soon as Baby Razor went down for her nap, I dragged our new patio set out onto the porch and set about assembling it. I figured I'd take a shower after I finished, so I left my PJs on. It was hot and the sun was right on top of me, so after putting the table together I decided to take a break before putting the umbrella up.

That, of course, was when I realized the door was locked. Okay, I thought, I have the tool kit. It can't be that hard to break into a house when you've got a shit-ton of tools, can it? YES. IT CAN. I tried unscrewing the storm window. Turns out it's also screwed in on the inside and painted to the side of the house. I tried picking the lock. Yeah, the producers of Supernatural will be getting a stern letter from me, because that shit is WAY harder than they make it look. I tried to bite the bullet and break the glass on the back door with a hammer. No go--it's apparently shatterproof. Which is good from a homeowner standpoint, but bad from a crazy, locked-out mother standpoint.

I psyched myself up to go next door and ask to use the phone. In my pajamas. Barefoot. Braless. It's okay! I know my neighbors! They're a really nice older couple. They were not home. All right. The family across the street? Nope. My friends down the block? Nobody there.

By this time I'd been outside for nearly an hour. I was starting to panic, covered in sweat, still barefoot and braless, and knocking on strangers' doors. I finally got an answer four doors down from my house, from a woman I'd smiled at a few times but never talked to. She let me use her phone to call Mr. Razor, who pretty much lost his shit, not that I blame him. In fact, while trying to find his mother's work number, he accidentally disconnected me.

As I was redialing, my neighbor was like, "So, I have some things to do? Errands to run?" Yeah, she clearly wanted the sweaty, frantic, half-dressed stranger out of her kitchen as soon as possible. I told the mister to get ahold of his mother, who has a key and works five minutes from our house, and I'd be on the back porch.

Then I waited. It was only about fifteen minutes, but I kept imagining I could hear the baby crying for me, which was pretty much the worst feeling in the world. I have never been so happy to see my mother in law. She opened the door, observed that our plants looked good and the baby didn't seem to be crying, promised to buy us one of those fake rocks for our extra key, and left.

I don't even remember closing the door and going upstairs to the baby's room. Baby Razor was standing there with her arms hanging over the edge of the crib, dry-eyed and singing to herself. When I walked in she looked at me like, What the crap, Mama. I've got a poopy diaper here. I managed to get her to the changing table before bursting into tears and dripping all over her.

Then, of course, I told twitter what a dipshit I am. And thank god I did, because my friends were like, pssh, that's nothing. My mother forgot me at home/left me in the car/accidentally knocked me down the stairs and I turned out fine! They really did. None of them have meth labs in their basement or anything.

So I guess the moral of the story is that no matter how good or careful a mother you are, you will occasionally do something horrendously stupid.

That's not reassuring, is it? How about this one instead: Try to limit your major parental fuck-ups to the kid's toddlerhood, which she won't remember anyway. That's useful advice, anyway.