I get up about 6 AM, get me and the boys ready for school, push Kindsay along and attempt to guide her away from Punky Brewster meets Lady Gaga styles, stay at work for seven hours attempting to teach 24 kids with severe disabilities standards that have blown past them long ago, leave at 3, pick up the boys at school, get home with dinner plans forming in my mind along with the list of stuff I gotta do before I go to bed that night (which--congrats to me--includes exercising, yes I am), so the last thing I need nor want is to walk in and find some kind of Kindsay chaos. I'd say nine out of ten returns home I find her eating in her bed with dogs all around her and a stench and every cupboard in the kitchen open with food and trash lining the countertops. Then that one time out of ten I will find...well--something that makes me go--huuuuh?
I walk in...tired as you can imagine...to find her squatting at her door in her bra and underwear, or her uniform in her case, and removing the door knob from her door. At this point, both knobs are off and she's fussing with that inner door thingy that keeps the door shut. Oh no...I'm already seeing a fight with her so I call Greg--she's removing the door knob, drive the speed limit when you come home so you can get her in a reasonable amount of time--and I dare ask what the heck she is doing. Of course her answer is, "Oh, uh, I wanted a fancy door, this is not fancy." Put it back on, Kindsay. The boys walk by...unphased by her bra and underwear (I was hoping they'd never become desensitized to it, but alas), but checking out her little project. I go straight to my room because I am NOT having this fight. I'm tired People. I shut my door and moments later hear screaming "I can't get out!" The boys are panicking "She can't get out! What do we do? What about the dogs? The dogs are locked in!" So she shuts her door sans knobs and now is stuck. I pretend I can't hear the mind-blowing, decible-laden catastrophe happening just feet away. Dee da da...dee da da...hmm hmmm hmmmmm...I can't hear you. I do, however, hear them with all their scheming to get her out of the room. I'm not worried--heck, I know how to jimmie a door and rescue her, but it was nice knowing she was in her room unable to cause any more mess until Greg got home. I hear the boys still in a panic over the fate of the locked dogs. Oh brother. Soon, Greg is home and coming in my room with confusion across his face, "Did you know she is locked in her room?" Oh dear! No, she's been very quiet, that's weird. Here comes Kindsay, though she is in her room with a closet full of clothes to cover all the butt and cleavage I have to see, she decides to climb through her window that exits to our front porch undressed. Stomping down the hall she throws open my door--Mom, I had to climb out the window, my door is locked, the dogs, what are we going to do about the dogs?! She is near hysterics at this point. I casually, almost lazily, pick up a screwdriver, drag my feet down the hall, jimmie the door-POP-open it...walk back to my room. Then Greg tells her SHE has to put the knobs back on after she starts her tirade of her door not having knobs. We continue with our evening while hearing her bang, pound and scream at the dumb knob (hey, they really are as dumb as door knobs, aren't they?) I'm making dinner, the boys are doing homework, Greg is cleaning..."Stupid stupid door--OK DOOR, YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME? YOU WANT A PIECE? HERE YOU GO!" Pound, bang, slam...sigh from the kitchen (that's me)...Greg and I are actually almost giggling as she pulls a Godfather type monologue on the door. So it's another night of Honey Do lists starting with Kindsay's projects that had no right to start in the first place. I, of course, fix the door and decide it was time to lock the kitchen cabinets. Or...Kindsay's doorway to ultimately screw with her parents. I get locks on both doors and keep the key hidden away. Control at last--we finally got her! No more middle of the night rummaging...no more keeping food in my closet so we can ration out what we have for the month...no more wrappers all over the counter in the morning...no more opened cans and filled tupperware of Chef Boyardee's marvels...Greg and I have won the battle! Confidently I rise the next day fully expecting a calmness never before experienced in the kitchen...as I get closer I hear sizzling...(sniff sniff) what the...? "Oh hi...uh...I'm just, uh, I'm making chicken, I found some frozen chicken in the freezer and now I'm cooking it--yeah...cooking it for Dad...just some chicken." Is there no end? Alas, we are foiled again (along with the uneaten chicken)...pun intended.