Or, the blog post title with the biggest spoiler of all time.
Last week's blog post was sparked by Jessie having tonsillitis, Buzz having asymptomatosis and me having asymptomatata. ONE of those people kissed Rex and passed it on. It was the only person who was truly infectious and by the end of the week, tiny Rex had a husky voice, pain on sneezing, a roasting fever and diarrhoea. Diagnosis: Tonsillitis.
On Sunday after church, we all tried for a rest. Poor Rex was feverish but still up for a good sleep, and I tried for one too. Woody interrupted me right up until five minutes before Rex woke up, so my sleep was poor. But when I finally heard my baby boy crying his husky, pained cry, Woody had fallen asleep to enjoy the rest he'd robbed from me, and I graciously allowed him to live.
Jessie came to me and whispered, "Rex is crying." I knew this. I asked her to ask Daddy kindly if he might get Rex but Daddy was very busy killing bad guys with Buzz (I'm still working out if I should be worried when my moral-policeman-seven-year-old-son gleefully shouts things like, "I've lost the cops!!") so Rex continued to cry.
I staggered down the hallway to rescue him, turned the handle of his door and barrelled in. Specifically, I barrelled into the door. I smashed my head into it, and momentarily worried about my sanity. I turned the knob properly the next time, and again smacked my face into the still-closed door.
Certain about my sanity now (Diagnosis: Stupid) I tried the knob the other way. And the first way. And the other way. At some point, I realised the door wasn't opening and I yelled to Mr de Elba mid-slaughter, "Can you come and tell me if I'm not properly awake or if Rex's door won't open?"
He came, and tried the doorknob many times. In the words of a tradesman who once did work for us: "Diagnosis: Buggered."
So while Rex cried his poor little lungs out, we grabbed my screwdriver set and took off the screws holding the knob onto the door. We fiddled with the mechanism. We turned the square sticky-outy thing that works the openy-closey mechanism: no luck. We tried to access parts further down the workings to retract the little tongue-thing from the hole-in-the-other-side thing: no luck. We kicked the door: no luck.
Now at this point, if time hadn't been an issue, we could have called my Mum, who is Tinkerbell Incarnate. She tinkers with stuff and it falls into place. We could have called Justadad, the husband of my friend Justamum, who knows how things work. We could have researched doorknob problems, we could have gone out and bought some magical tools, we could have asked the tradesman who is coming soon to work on some other doors around the house.
But it was a lazy Sunday afternoon and poor feverish Rex had screamed hard for 20 minutes so he was about to burst into flames. We'd exhausted all the options at our disposal so there was only one option left. It was drastic, it was destructive, and it was a whole heap of fun.
Mr de Elba chopped the door down with a mattock.
The door was cheap and the knob was rubbish, and recently Mr de Elba has been so busy at work that a bit of door-chopping was a rather welcome and therapeutic distraction. Also, he'd just been killing bad guys so he was in the mood.
|I wasn't joking.|
Finally, the hole was big enough for me to crawl through and I went in to rescue my baby who had wriggled himself into a painful position all smashed up against the bars of the cot. I handed him out to his Daddy who had lovingly chopped his door down with a mattock.
|I did this for you, my son.|
Buy a new door.
And a really good quality doorknob.
And get it from the shop to our house.
And install it.
Addendum: Although the Dyson is very good, the door was spread far and wide. We are still finding bits of door in unlikely places.