Did Somebody Call 9-1-1?

Every fall, right about this time of year when the air turns a bit crisp (yep, even in Southern California), I warp into this soup-making creature of sorts.  I mean, that's fitting, right?  Nothing better than a bowl of piping hot soup on a chilly night...especially when you're an eco-friendly, energy-saving mom budget-friendly mom who adamantly refuses to turn on the heat yet.
Ahhhh, and the soup-making beast has yet again been released this year.  Chili, veggie soup, potato soup with "ruffles" (aka dumplings), veggie soup with ground turkey, the infamous (home-made) Panera broccoli and cheddar soup (sans amazing Sourdough bread bowl because who seriously has time to make THAT when you're focused on figuring out how condensed a can of cream of chicken can be before it's similar to chicken broth), and, of course, veggie soup with pasta wheels (because how many times can you make veggie soup in a 3-week span and keep children interested?)


It was, however, a recent night spent soaking red beans and then simmering them for an eternity hour to get that perfect soup softness that took me back to a night, not so long ago, when a perfect night of soup-making turned...well...interesting.


This particular evening was pre-California era, when we lived in St. Louis where seasons are seasons; winter is cold (schools get to take snow days!), spring is windy and rainy, summer is hot and sticky, and fall is nippy (not to be mistaken for nipply, which is what my 2 year-old at the time would call it in his proud attempt at trying to sound grown up).
It was a rather "nipply" night, and following a exhausting day of nursing a newborn every hour, wiping green crayon cave-like drawings off of stucco walls, watching the turtle scene in Nemo forty times in-a-row, and typing 5 sentences in a graduate school acceptance essay, I suddenly felt this huge burst of energy, grew ginormous muscles, turned into this crazed, green giant......


Oh, wait, that was the Hulk...
I didn't do all that...
Ohhh, but Sara the Soup Monster was unleashed.  


Chili.


It was time to make chili.
Now, if you know me like my friends know me, my chili is rather spectacular.  It's a process, and the LARGE pot must slowly simmer to perfection after the ingredients are added in meticulously.


So, I get busy.  
I wear the baby in the carrier to rock him to sleep with my kitchen dance and aromas.  I arm the 2 year-old with coloring books and crayons at the table ("because," I remind him, "crayons are for drawing on paper, not stucco walls").  As the chili begins to simmer, I steal the chance to move a sleeping newborn to my bedroom, out of the way of a big brother who is way too rough likes to love him a bit too much.
I throw the cornbread in the oven and began chopping veggies for a fabulous salad.
I even use my big girl knife that I bought from that swanky home store because I swore I was going to chop and dice everything and make strictly home-cooked, healthy meals.
I'm feeling rather Martha Stuart-esque at this point .  Heck, I've even got Aretha playing in the background.  I am on my lioness high.


Baby boy is preciously sleeping.
Little boy is still coloring away, in the living room now because he hast to "watch da tuh-tuls sim again."
(Umm, yeah, you know what he said, no need to translate.)


So, I find myself with 5 minutes.


Veggies chopped, ready to be tossed into the salad.
Cornbread is baking.
Chili is simmering.
Dishes are rinsed.
Ingredients are put up.


Five minutes.
So...I decide to sneak out the back door and take out the trash.


No sooner had I gently pulled the doorknob into me did I hear the pitter-patter of 2 year-old feet run through the kitchen and down the hallway, directly to the back door.
And then, rather than seeing the doorknob turn and hearing the door creak open, I heard the most horrid, awful sound I could have ever heard in my life.
Click.
The deadbolt locked.


My stomach dropped to my ankles.
UGH.


I immediately began pleading with the toddler to open up the door.  
"Turn that switch back the way it was!"
To which the toddler suddenly freaked out, knowing he made an err that could not be undone, and a screaming fit of "Mawwwwmeeeee!" ensued on the other side of the block of pine.


I knew the front door was locked.  (I checked it again anyway, praying I unlocked it for some intelligent reason).
I also knew the only open window was above the kitchen sink, which was 10 feet high from the base of the house outside.
I began frantically pleading with the terrified boy at this time, "Open the lock! Turn the lock again!"


I imagined the pot of chili spewing over the edge onto the floor, burning my child.
I imagined the boy reaching the knife on the counter.
I imagined the cornbread burning, setting my oven on fire.
I imagined my sweet little 3 week-old awake, screaming his poor little head off and no one to be able to save him.


It was during my pleading, that my neighbor poked her head out her back door (as we lived in a townhouse, and our back doors basically kissed each other). 
She didn't say a word for a few minutes; just watched me beg my child to "turn the switch again." 
She then asked me all the things I'd already thought of: front door?  windows?  hidden key under the mat?
Then, without asking/telling me, she called 9-1-1.

Thirty seconds later sirens wail into my front yard.

A fire truck, an ambulance, a rescue truck, and 3 police cars.

I am dead serious.

The firemen immediately get in MacGyver mode, scouring the house for the best way in.

The paramedics get the stretcher out on my front lawn, waiting to save the life of a 2 year-old trapped inside his own home.

I think I even see the Channel 5 news crew!  (Well, maybe that part was exaggerated a little.) 

I still have yet to tell anyone a 3 week-old lies asleep in the front bedroom…I mean, at this point, I don’t think we need to bring in the choppers, too.

I am officially in panic mode because I can no longer hear the toddler crying at the back door.

I can only assume that he’s trying to “durr da pot” on the stove, and he’s going to fall off the chair he pulled up to the stove, burn his face/hands/belly, and knock himself unconscious on the way down.

(What mom wouldn’t think that when she gets locked out of her home?)

During the panic attack, enter police officer numero uno at stage left.

We’ll call him the reporter.

“Name?  Birthdate?  Address? (ummmm, did you really just ask me that?)  Phone number?  Son’s name?  Son’s age?  Son’s birthdate?”  Yadda, yadda.

He quickly left to join cop number two…the traffic director.  Yes, the street in front of my house now needed a traffic director because not only did every nosey neighbor decide to walk down to see the commotion, but every car who drove by had to stop and gawk as well.

Policemen numbers three and four were the cheerleaders.  They ignored us completely and provided support to the rather hunky firemen now attempting to climb up the human ladder and into my kitchen window.

It did not take long was a lifetime before the window was popped through, and my door to welcome me home once again.

And yet, there that boy sat.

At the table, coloring his pictures.

Looking up once to say, “Heddo, Midder Firefider man!”

Having completely forgotten that he locked out his mama (and, of course, not even near the stove).

Stage right?  Yep, policeman number five. 

“Well, ma’am, I guess we’ll chalk this one up to a lesson learned.”

I have never walked out my door again without grabbing my keys...even for 10 steps to the trash can.

And, to this day, I can never make a pot of chili without smiling at that big-headed, little boy.