My ward, King William (his mother is off shooting penguins in Antarctica) is one second away from being mobile. He is now at the stage where he has the art of rolling over down to a science. He can pinpoint exactly what he wants to get his hands on and roll roll roll like a hot dog across any terrain to get said object. Poor Kiki Wonder lives on the furniture these days. This past weekend he began to experimentally lift his hips off of the floor. The more he does it, the closer he comes to understanding that he can scoot his knees under himself. I’m watching like a hawk because with mobility comes Baby Proofing.
Baby proofing your home in now a multi-gazillion dollar business up there with getting married and dressing your pet. There are special locks to purchase for the cabinets, the doors, the toilets, and the sofa cushions. There are outlet covers, knob covers, coffee table edge covers, and stove covers. There are gates and mesh webs and plastic tubes to cover electrical cords. There are things to buy for every single dangerous thing in your home and guess what? Your home is like a minefield.
According to “the experts” babies are about one second away from death at all times. Kiki’s water dish that’s on the floor? Deadly. Kiki will now need to drink when I tell her she’s thirsty and survive the rest of the time camel-style. The remote control on top of the television? Deadly. Baby can pull on the television cables, haul the 80lb TV box off of the table (the remote would come down with it of course), and then dismantle the remote control to get the batteries out of it to suck on. And forget about leaving my jeans on the floor. Baby could gnaw off one of the buttons when my back is turned or god forbid, use the zipper as a chain saw.
So instead, in fear for our children’s precious little lives, we rubberize and lock down our homes. I’m wrapped in bubble-wrap as we speak. I heard that an elbow could poke out an eye.
Pop pop pop.