Where I've (not) been

Life with two very small children just got a LOT harder. Emmy isn't just crawling clumsily around the floor anymore. No. We have an obsession with all things climbing. I'm of the firm opinion that unless she's in danger of causing permanent or severe damage to herself, we need to let her fall and hurt herself. Also, Grace sometimes requires my attention (like when going down for naps). I can't drag Emmy with me every time. This means leaving Emmy to her own devices in the living room or dining room.

I thought the downstairs was mostly free of serious baby hazards. But no, not this baby. If she were alone in a rubber room, she'd fashion a noose for herself out of her diaper, her hair, and her toenails, and hang it from the ceiling with a fingernail. This child is hellbent on offing herself, and I'm not sure I can stop her unless I stick her in an exersaucer or her crib all day.

I was upstairs yesterday afternoon, about to get Grace up from her nap when I heard horrible screams downstairs. I haven't ever heard Emmy scream like this, and let me tell you, that girl can scream when she wants to. I came flying down the stairs to find her throat-first across the support beam on one of the chairs. I think she was trying to get at the straps on Grace's booster seat and slipped. It was really awful, and I nearly panicked (and I did cry). She still has a bruise on her neck.

Okay, bad experience, but maybe this means she'll learn a lesson, right? ... right?

No. She was right back at it today.

She tries to climb the book boxes in the living room, always the ones closest to a hard corner of the piano or TV cabinet. She tries to climb the couch, always at exactly the right distance from the coffee table that she'll whack her head on the top on her way down. She has a radar for power cords and small spaces that the laws of physics say she shouldn't even be able to occupy.

So that's why I haven't written in a few days. That, and Jeremy being gone. Yesterday was the most exhausting day I've had in a long time. I'm very thankful for the seven hours of sleep that preceded it. Oh, and Emmy is teething. So on top of the suicide attempts, she's just been grouchy in general.

She's like that nursery rhyme: "There was a little girl who had a curl right in the middle of her forehead [okay, so she only has peach fuzz, no curls]. When she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad, she was HORRID." My grandpa used to say that to me when I was acting up. He'd growl out the "HORRID" like he was a bear. Anyway, Emmy is happy and sweet about 90% of the time. But that other 10% is wretched.

I think I've aged about five years since Emmy started crawling and teething again. Someone send me booze. Or more Vicodin.

Safety is overrated.

We are FINALLY getting around to doing a little babyproofing. I mean, I'd moved all the dangerous chemicals out of The Child's immediate reach (though I have no doubt she'll be quite able to scale the refrigerator by the time she's 2), and anything breakable is out of her reach (again, scaling bookshelves in no time, I'm sure). But I hadn't put anything on the cabinets in the kitchen, and we never do plan to completely babyproof. I like my books and bookshelves within easy reach, and she is perfectly capable of learning what is off limits. She already has, in fact. (please note: this does NOT mean she doesn't sneak off to the bookshelf once in a while because she does, and then she looks over her shoulder at me with a sly little devil grin, and it is VERY hard for me not to laugh and encourage that behavior)

So, with the new one coming, I decided it was in my best interest to make SOME things, at least, a little harder to get at. I started installing "childproof" latches on the kitchen cabinets a few days ago, and I finished up today.

Dear Safety 1st,



USER FRIENDLY FAIL


Love,
A Very Frustrated Parent

It's enough to make a mom booze it up while The Child gets herself stuck in the slow cooker.

Granted, this may have been a whole lot easier if we owned a drill, but people, not all parents own drills. Now, though, I would probably sell The Child for a good drill set. This is home project #98372 for which I've had to install screws in something without a drill, and I have had enough.

It does not help that The Child did her absolute best to "help" me do the installation. Mostly this involved shimmying up my backside and grabbing for the hammer (or screwdriver or latch or whatever shiny, dangerous object happened to be closest) and breathing strangely in my ear. I keep saying I'll do it while she's napping, but it seems like such a waste to spend her naps working. That's my lunch break, yo!

Silver lining: My arm and shoulder muscles are BULGING.