The kids’ bedroom door was closed. This isn’t anything unusual. They sometimes like to shut themselves off from the rest of the world. I think nothing of it for a minute or two, it’s quiet, nice. Buzz knows how to let himself out just fine, but I always worry that Abby may be trapped inside. So I get up to open the door, for her.
This time, though, the door wouldn’t open except for a sliver. There was a heavy plastic bin full of toys directly behind it. The room is smaller than some closets, so that bin didn’t have any room to move until it pushed up against the bed frame. I couldn’t even get my hand through.
In those few seconds of thought, panic swept over me. What if I couldn’t get the door open? What if they were trapped? Buzz was in there, sure, but what if he didn’t understand? Or what if he just decided not to listen and be difficult? He is 3, it wouldn’t be the first time. Oh God, I’ll have to call the fire department? Bust in their window? But how would I even get in their window? We don’t have a ladder. Could I kick their door in? Abby’s going to start crying soon. I’m going to start crying soon. What do I do?
“Buzz, you need to move that please.”
Without even hesitating, he scooted the bin back, but not enough.
“You need to move it a little bit more.”
Which he did. Just like that.
Clearly, I do not give the boy enough credit.