How the Shag Lock got its start

Remember watching the animated Dr. Seuss story of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas on TV? Remember the scene where The Grinch is stuffing the Christmas tree up the chimney of a house in Who-ville and Little Cindy-Lou (“who was no more than 2”) silently, sneakily, yet innocently glides out from her bedroom and comes to a noiseless halt right behind him -- not maybe three feet away -- and asks “Why? Santy Clause – why are you taking our Christmas tree?”

Now that’s the 8th wonder of the world for me.

Forget the pyramids. How children can be so loud and clamoring by day announcing their arrival with feet stomping and tongues wagging and yet perform a silent ninja-like drop into a darkened bedroom (Tom Cruise  repelling stealthily from the ceiling during Mission Impossible is a fair visual here) when entering a room at night. That’s it. Wonder #8. How do they do that?

So if you see me divert my eyes quickly when The Mommies gather and start hand-wringing jointly over balancing home, work, family, etc., it’s because my dictionary of stress has a different definition.  Life balance for me isn’t about work vs. family; it’s about whom to keep upstairs and downstairs when bedtime comes.   

Our house? We love it. But it’s not designed for a family of five. Plenty of room, mind you, just in all the wrong places. 

I am loathe to put any of our children in downstairs bedrooms. Can’t help but hear all those Elizabeth Smart and Jon Benet Ramsey stories of kids taken out of their beds while their parents slept cluelessly through it. Nope. Not ours. You will have to get past the locks, alarm, killer cat with siren-like meow, me, my husband and one hell of creaky wooden floor to get to my kids.

Ah, but there in lies the challenge – how “close” can you keep them when the two of you want to be “closer” (wink-wink) with each other?

Until a month ago, our three little Z’s shared a room. Bunk beds and a toddler bed. They loved it. No issues. In our house, our upstairs is a sanctuary for relaxing, spending time together and just for sleeping. We only have books and stuffed animals and keepsakes in their room – no toys per se, not enough room. 

Our stairway has a lockable door at the bottom of it that separates upstairs from downstairs. But the stairs themselves enter directly into the master bedroom. Originally the whole upstairs was just a master suite with oversized bathroom, dressing room and library included. We cleverly and painfully reorganized it as nursery, then shared room for three, then girls’ room and our son’s room separately with a little bit of help from a contractor.

Cozy. Safe. Closeknit…lots of access to mom and dad.  Making for lots of peace of mind. Oh, and also making it completely impossible to have a sex life. Until the Shag Lock, that is.

There was no “door” on which we could install a lock for our room. The kids’ room had only those old crystal doorknobs that look so charming and are completely without function.  Being big fans of the afternoon delight, we’d sort of happened upon what has come to be known (only to my husband and me…oh, and now the rest of the freakin’ Internet) as the Shag Lock.

Basically it evolved like this, with just one tiny one who couldn’t get out of the crib, sex was no problem. With two little ones that both napped, we’d embark on what I  called the progressive romance rendevous. For example, baby might be napping in room A, and toddler in crib napping in room B, that meant room C was “available” – we’d just move the action in there.

However, by the time you have a third it becomes less of a rendevous and more like official military maneuvers complete with attempted synchronization of nap schedules and code words for when the footed-PJ enemy scout could be heard banging around in the trench, I mean, the crib.

Eventually we opted to just wait until all were asleep (yes, it could happen) and we’d pass the time waiting for that to happen with baby monitor on deck outside as we’d hang out in the hot tub until we were certain they were asleep.

I’m getting to the Shag Lock, I swear.

So, on one such evening we’d closed up the hot tub and were having a glass of wine on the deck in our very private backyard area before heading inside. It was just after dark and still pretty warm outside, warm enough to sit on my husband’s lap, sip wine and reminisce  how we used to do this all the time. When suddenly my husband glances over my shoulder and apparently sees a ghost.

Before he can stammer out a sentence I already knew what he saw.  My jammied, barely 4-year-old son, standing so close behind me I could smell his Tom’s of Maine orange-mango flavored toothpaste on his tiny hot breaths at the back of my head.

“Mommy, why are you sitting on Daddy’s lap all naked?” …. Oh. (sheepish grin here) Did I forget to mention we were naked? My first reaction was to swat my husband on the head… did he not see the child exiting the backdoor and walking up to our chairs? He claims he couldn’t see him and neither of us heard a thing.

We remained calm and just said we were done with the hot tub and waiting until we were dry because we forgot to bring towels,  blah blah blah and on and on with the pathetic parent cover up.  Now, I continue to tell myself and anyone with a license to practice child psychology, that since we weren’t actually in the “act” of doing anything no harm done, but the position was indeed compromising. But we didn’t fuss at him, or overreact (or move too quickly at all as I recall) but walked him back upstairs and tucked him in next to his bed just steps away from his two snoring sisters.

Ace Hardware opens at exactly 8 a.m. on Sundays. I know because my husband was their first customer the next day.  It’s just one of those little latches, like a screen door might have. It’s very high on the door – I can barely reach it myself.  No big deal. They haven’t asked what it’s there for or ever actually tried to open the door with it latched – yet.

And please, save all the “fire hazard” judgments – we flip the latch moments before and unflip it immediately afterward and we never leave the upstairs with it latched. 

It’s hardly noticeable, highly effective and costs $1.69. Which strikes me as being a lot cheaper than therapy for any one of our three little ones who might otherwise walk in on mom and dad doing the wild thing when they only bargained for a Dixie cup of water from the bathroom. I get to keep my children close, and my husband, even closer, for less than a cup of coffee at Starbucks.