It wouldn't be an All-American Olde Fashioned Tymes Storch Family Vacation without a little drama or injury of some kind, now would it?
The only Jamaica-related injuries sustained last week were 1) me bashing up my shin pretty nicely, during the packing process at home, after getting my foot tangled up in a Big Wheel in our basement storage area while attempting to gracefully step over it in order to get my underwear off the drying rack, and 2) I dunno, Jason got a weird rash from one of our sunscreens?
Pretty good, as these things go for us. Which left us in dire need for a little excitement and/or threat of mortal peril.
HELLO! HAPPY TO BE OF SERVICE!
We had just sat down to our next-to-last lunch on our next-to-last day when we realized Ike had gotten up from the table already. Being the fiercely protective mama bear that I am, I shrugged and mumbled something (through a mouthful of fried chicken) about seeing him right over there a few seconds before, he probably went up to our bedroom or something.
I was right. But! One small extra thing.
And here's one of the quirks of staying in an old, traditional-style home, versus a hotel — there is no keyhole on this particular door. It locks from the inside with a turn of a knob. The bedroom doors in the children's area/suite/wing all have those knobs placed up near the ceiling to prevent kids from locking themselves in, plus those rooms are all accessible via keyed doors to the outside. But our master bedroom — being in another area of the house, on the top floor, where one would assume a Good Parent would mayyyyybe not let their small child wander unsupervised in the first place, you negligent monster — was different, the ONE door in the house with a lower lock.
So, yep. Ike locked himself in. Took all of 14 seconds out of our sight, by my guess.
We all stood outside the door for awhile and tried to jimmy open the lock, and then to coax Ike into turning the knob again so we could open the door. That worked about as well as you'd expect, so at that point 1) a ladder was called for, and 2) I finally put down my chicken and picked up the camera, because I needed to document this nonsense for his wedding.
Staff surveying the second-floor balconies from the patio below. (No sign of him, so Jason went off to do one last sweep of the rest of the house to make sure we weren't all trying to rescue Ike from a completely empty room.)
The ladder arrives.
The ladder goes up...
...as does Sascha, our nanny.
I should note that by the time she climbed up, Ike had probably been alone in our room for less than 10 minutes — and there was nothing remotely dangerous for him to get into, save for squirting out all the sunscreen bottles onto my laptop. Climbing over the balcony railings would've required him to push a 50-pound antique chair across the room, and there were now a good half-dozen staff members spaced out underneath. Point is, I wasn't worried, and mostly found this all to be hilarious, because OF COURSE it would be MY KID, and of all my kids, OF COURSE it would be IKE.
After climbing up and over, Sascha returned to the balcony laughing hysterically, and demanded that someone pass her up my camera.
IKE. HEY. IKE.
WHATCHA DOING THERE, BABY IKE?
Huh? Oh. Hey.
Yeah, he was just chillin' on the floor, doin' Baby Ike Stuffs, watching Ratatouille on the iPad, less than three damn feet from the damn door lock, completely oblivious to the excitement he'd caused.
Brothers, reunited. (With their precious iPad, that is.)
After all the rescue, we sat back down for lunch, take two.
We ate all the fried chicken, and Noah and Ike requested some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dessert. (Ezra asked for fruit. Always with the fruit.)
I guess causing all that chaos works up quite an appetite.
BONUS EPILOGUE OF IRONY:
While I wrote this entry, Ike was busy doing this, with my lip glosses and eyeliners:
BONUS BONUS EPILOGUE OF IRONY:
I totally thought he was playing with the iPad.