Posted by Duff

Because raising two kids isn’t hard enough, I’ve decided (well, my husband and I have decided by our failure to make a decision) to raise the stakes.

This second time around, we didn’t babyproof.

Before you think that I’m putting my child at risk, I’m not. I’m putting myself at risk. Of a temper tantrum. All stairs are gated or behind closed, locked doors. All outlets are covered. All solvents and choking hazards have been moved to cabinets unreachable, even to me, without a chair. I’m talking about everything else: pots, pans, paper and melanine plates; plastic spoons; fruit cups; tupperware; napkins (damned irresistable lazy susan) And of course, on my forgetful days, that holy grail: toilet paper.  And more. So, so much more that I can’t think of, but Atticus can. And he can find any of it in seconds. Add to that a four year old Dervish who is part raccoon (think birthday candles, clothespins, stickers, you name it) and entices the little guy around the house like a honey-blond pied piper, and basically, I’m screwed.

As if powerwashing the high chair three times a day (make that five, I forgot snacks) or wiping noses and heinies (with love, of course, because they are sweet noses and heinies) wasn’t enough. I like to keep myself guessing.

I don’t recommend our method. I don’t want to tell you how much time I spend cleaning up the same things, and it’s my own fault, as much as I’d like to blame it on lack of short-term storage. There is, after all, an entire row at baby stores dedicated to cabinet locks.

And no, I won’t be posting a picture, because I still have a few friends who think my house is clean. The truth is, it’s not clean. I just spend a lot of time cleaning.

I don’t have to tell you the moral of this story.

Advertisements