The Broken Windows Theory

If one accepts the Broken Windows Theory, then my house is about to be overrun by thugs and hooligans.

We have a broken window.

Last week, my sweet, innocent, petite, not-quite-two-year-old daughter locked me out of the house. In my neon green running shorts. With my greasy hair in a ponytail. Without phone or keys.  And it turns out that keys and locksmiths wouldn’t have helped anyway because the child-locks on our doors prevent them from being opened from the outside.

After more than an hour of my neighbor and me begging and pleading and using outright bribery (Girl Scout cookies) to cajole sweet, little Miss C to open the sliding glass door, we decided it was time to call for help. With my pride well swallowed, I dialed the fire department’s non-emergency line. They, of course, switched me to dispatch and in no time a fire truck was on its way – lights, sirens, and all.

Miss C soon had five hulking firemen and a police officer wrapped around her cute little finger. “Come on, sweetheart, open the door!” they begged. Then she smiled coyly and sat back in her little chair. After a bit she retreated to the laundry room and came back with a soda. Clearly, she had no plans to open the door and spoil her party.

So the window got broken.

The firemen tried to bend the child-locks back, but when it looked like doing that would rip the door frame off, we opted to lose a window. With a few quick swings of a fireman’s pick axe, we were back inside the house.

Where I picked up my little hooligan and gave her a kiss.