Monday, October 19, 2009

Child Proofing Makes You THIN

I have been exaggerating for months that my son can walk.
At almost 18-months old he crawls faster than most golf carts, but he
shows little to no interest in being a biped.
I wasn’t pushing him into it; I rather enjoy the killer biceps (on the left arm anyway) from lugging
around a 26-pounder.
Two nights ago however, Baby Boy got up and walked across the room
like he had never done

Darling Husband and I looked at each other not with gleaming pride
but the
exhausted horror in knowing that we finally
had to baby proof.
We dusted off the child proof kit we purchased when we heard moms brag that
"My Darling
started walking at 9 months! He didn't even crawl!"

Knowing Baby Boy was way more brilliant and physically advanced
than these crabs we
bought the kit that guaranteed he wouldn't open a cabinet or door until he was 10.
Yet, as the months ticked by and he stayed eye level with the dog,
we forgot about the kit and started coming up with white lies about all
the crazy things he
was getting into now that he was “officially” a walker.

“Yes, I’m right there with you Sara,” my eyes darting around the room for objects
that might hold appeal to a toddler.
“If I had a nickel for every time I have to pry the faux Ming Dynasty tureen
from his sticky little grasp.”

Now the lies were back to haunt us.
The first red flag should have been that we couldn't even open
the damn package.
I ended up slitting my wrist across the angry plastic covering as
Darling Husband stormed
off to get the box cutter.

Hours later we had baby proofed everything in the house.
Unfortunately, when all
we wanted
to do was celebrate with a margarita, we couldn't figure out how to
the fancy lock from the liquor cabinet.
The next morning, I forgot the fridge and freezer doors
were locked together and
their combined force slammed into my forehead when I went in for milk.
My mother-in-law was locked out and the dog was locked in.
No one could unlatch the toilet lid locks resulting in some humiliated
dinner guests.

We had adult-proofed the damn house while my son could
easily still slip his small wrist
into the cabinet to crank the
volume on the stereo and slide underneath the gate blocking entry to the kitchen.
He held much glee in our panicked faces as he dumped the slimy dog water, yet again,
over his head.

After a few days of starving and peeing on the floors, we removed (with force)
all the baby proofing gizmos.
So we didn't feel too negligent, I grabbed a thick Sharpie and
wrote "WATER" over all the Vodka and Gin bottles.
At least now it's Grandpa-Proofed.

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