My cell phone rang at school today. I don't talk on it a lot, so it's either a wrong number or a family emergency. "Private Number Calling." (That's us. I need to un-block us.)
Frank said, "We're locked out of the apartment." That's our spare 'oom. A friend stayed over and they left the key in the 'oom. Ernest visited them, and left the EXTRA key in the 'oom. (You're wondering why he was home on a Friday? He had the day off after finals.)
In the morning they left the 'oom. The door shut. Panic ensued. They tried to pick the lock (evidence of miniature screw drivers and straightened-out paper clips left on the counter). They were unsuccessful.
I told him I didn't think there was another spare 'oom key. He tried the two mystery keys in our key dish but they didn't work. (It's true, one is labled "Mystery" and one is "?." Why do I still keep them?)
So I said, get out the phone book and call a locksmith, and you can pay for it on your VisaBuxx. This 17 year old boy doesn't like to call people, but he did. And the locksmith came and opened the 'oom and everything was fine. And I have to compliment the locksmith, they were there in about an hour.
I was proud of myself for not rushing home and fixing things. For me, that's the hard part of being the mother of a teen: sit back and let him solve the problem. But that's what I need to do.
And his job tomorrow is to go to the hardware store and have some extra keys made.
P.S. the next day: he didn't get the keys made (which ended up to be job #3 on my final list), but he did clean up the room (#1) and figure out how to return his broken Rock Band guitar controller (#2). I gave him a pass on #3 until tomorrow.