I can't remember the circumstances of our being locked out in Alaska, but we had been standing in the foyer debating whether or not we should call the landlady when G, who had been potty training at the time, announced that she had to use the restroom. Drew promptly disappeared out the front door of the triplex, and within a minute, reappeared through our apt's front door. How did he do it? We had one of those mini balconies (without stairs) that evidently Drew was just tall enough to grab hold the edge of and monkey up. Our sliding glass door didn't have a lock, but there was a stick I rarely used, so he easily walked in – comforting, huh? – and was the day's hero.
The first time we found ourselves outside of locked doors here, we had returned from church to find that we had forgot to pack the door key and the garage door opener. (This was before we got the new garage door opener which finally helped us to program the buttons on the car.) Luckily, we had brought Jimmy Johns home because, of course, the girls were hungry; and the weather was delightful, so we were able to sit out on the back deck while supervising Drew's efforts. (Calling the landlady was not an option because she probably didn't have a spare. She once told us whenever she locked herself out, she would climb through the dog door, which was one of the first things I had Drew board up for fear of the girls curiously poking in and tumbling down the narrow stairs on the inside.) After surveying all the windows, he finally decided on muscling the stationary side of the sliding glass door that had yet to be screwed into the frame since the house was built, a happy notion of security. Within an hour of regaining the house, Drew had his toolbox out and was completing the job the contractors didn't finish.
This week, however, required brute force strength, and significantly more than just his regular toolbox (think power tools). I had left Drew at home with the girls to do some last-minute Thanksgiving grocery shopping, and when I returned, I found Drew in the garage with G and BB, locked out, and Z still asleep upstairs in our room. Drew had been busy putting some new shelves together when, apparently, G and BB came downstairs, closing (and locking) the door behind them. They had hoped that I had the key, but I did not. Once again, Drew surveyed the house, and rather than wait for a locksmith, during which time Z would wake up, and though she usually doesn't fuss, she'll eventually come to it if no one comes after some polite requests, he decided to kick the door down. Literally. If you've never seen it done, it can be quite exhilarating because the whole time you expect that the frame is going to burst apart, like you see in the movies, splinters flying in all directions, door flat on the floor. Instead, our frame held and the door buckled where the knob is: it took about four or five good kicks. I think we're going to get on the ball about getting us a spare key to hide in the garage...once we get the door fixed.
