This morning after breakfast, you sat down at my computer upstairs to play a game. I was downstairs dressing Hagen when I heard you squeal, "I'M STUCK!" Thinking you were just "stuck" on a level of your computer game, I ignored you and kept chasing Hagen around his room to get a shirt on the boy. The longer I was down there, the more desperate your hollering became. In my defense, this IS how you would react to being stuck in your game, because most days you have two modes: asleep, and DEFCON 5.
I finally made my way upstairs to discover you were quite literally stuck: you'd been sitting down on the chair when you slipped your foot back in between the two horizontal front slats and almost instantly discovered that you couldn't get your foot back out.
We wiggled your foot around, which you found distressing. We lotioned up your foot and tried to slip it out - nope. I tried laying the chair on its back and lifting you out, but that made you scream, so we stopped that at once.
So I went to the garage and got the saw.
When I came up the stairs holding the saw, you started sobbing in earnest, because you thought I was going to use the saw on your foot, instead of the chair. I sat down and sawed the slat off the chair, and in five minutes or so, we'd liberated your foot. The whole time, I was cussing you under my breath for getting your foot stuck in an antique solid oak chair that took for-ev-er to saw, instead of one of the many Ikea chairs located around the house that I could probably carve up in two minutes with a steak knife.
I exercised restraint and didn't take any pictures of you in your moment of crisis. I also didn't laugh, even though the situation reminded me so much of that episode of "Designing Women" when Julia gets her head stuck in the historic Abbot Banister.
They sawed her out of that one, too.
Happens to the best of us.
Love,
Mom
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