Let’s get one thing straight: locking my toddler in her room was entirely unintentional.
It was 3 a.m., and we were on night four of the infamous sleep training saga — the kind that leaves you feeling like a zombie. After three consecutive nights of broken sleep, I was teetering on the edge of sanity. A piercing cry jolted me awake, or at least I think it did. My brain was still in a fog, and as I stumbled through the familiar yet daunting ten steps to her room, I felt like I was trudging through the Swamp of Sadness, weighed down by exhaustion.
There she was, my sweet little girl. She was well-fed, bathed, and all her immediate needs were met. And yet, she was crying. Screaming. The room was a cozy haven filled with her favorite toys, plush animals, and a bed dressed in sheets she picked herself. And yet, the poor thing was so miserable!
In my dazed state, I approached her and mustered what little energy I had for comfort. I patted her back, murmuring half-hearted assurances while swaying to stay awake as her cries began to soften. “Okay, Mommy needs to sleep now,” I mumbled, heading toward the door.
As I reached for the handle, the thought of her climbing out of bed for a fifth time that night hit me like a freight train. If I had to deal with one more wake-up, I was sure I’d dissolve into a puddle of tears. Without thinking, I clicked the lock and quietly closed the door behind me.
The moment that lock clicked, the gravity of my mistake slammed into me. I had locked my 2-year-old in her room from the outside. Panic overwhelmed me, and I burst into tears, waking my husband who, confused and alarmed, struggled to grasp the ridiculousness of the situation.
“Why did you lock the door?” he asked, trying to comprehend my frantic sobs.
“Because I’m a horrible parent!” I howled, crumpling to the floor in despair.
Since we had just moved in, we had no idea if there was a key to the bedrooms. We searched frantically, even looking above the 7-foot door frames, all while my world blurred through a cascade of tears.
My daughter, initially calm, began to sense my distress as I tried to guide her on how to unlock the door from her side. Her tiny fingers struggled to grasp the concepts I was trying to convey. “Mommy, I can’t,” she whined. “Open the door.”
My sobs communicated my defeat, and soon enough, she was crying too. We were separated by a mere two inches of hollow wood, yet we felt completely alone. I berated myself for being such a terrible mom, convinced that I was inflicting irreversible trauma. What sort of expensive therapy would she need in adulthood to overcome this? Would she grow up determined to be nothing like me, removing doors like a modern-day Johnny Appleseed?
Finally, after an hour filled with failed attempts from my dad who had rushed over with tools, and an array of wild ideas ranging from knocking the door down to simply forcing it open, my husband managed to pop the handle down, and the door swung open.
There she was, peacefully asleep, surrounded by her beloved stuffed animals, drool pooling on her pillow cover. She had even managed to use the bathroom on her own during the whole ordeal.
We congratulated each other, probably muttering something like “We survived this night.” As I lay back down on my pillow, I whispered, “One day, this will be a funny story—just not today.”
And perhaps today is that day. While this isn’t my proudest parenting moment, it was undeniably real and authentic. It was the human side of me—exhausted, flawed, pushed to the brink, and not quite sure of what to do.
The next morning, I apologized to her, and she smiled at me as if she had no clue what I was talking about. It dawned on me that my meltdown had affected me far more than it had impacted her. That night, she slept soundly in her own room.
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