Double Dutch Doors

When a child begins to propel him/herself in an independent and successful fashion with some regularity, a responsible parent takes measures to insure (ensure?) that said child will remain in a safe, comfortable, and stimulating environment. We call this the baby gate period.

At some point in a child's development, he/she will master either climbing the babygate or even (you clever baby!) opening the baby gate without adult assistance. It is at this juncture that a responsible parent will take particular care to safeguard surrounding areas while simultaneously developing a weirdly precise parent-radar. We call this the baby-proofing period.

In the normal course of events, once a child is shepherded safely through those perilous first two periods of development, the child can be allowed (within reason, of course) to free-range roam the residence. We call this the who-the-hell-pushed-all-my-tampons-out-of-the-applicator period.

In the case of my children, and most pointedly That Little Red-Headed Fellow, a responsible parent would certainly have a better grip on the general whereabouts of the children. I, however, am not a member of that particular parental organization. No, I charge up the reciprocating saw and cut a door in half and install each half in the two main portals to all that is sharp, permanent, and not meant for human consumption. With sliding bolts. And ledges (all the better to prevent climbing, my dear)

LRHF has outwitted this aged and slow-witted mommy time and time again with the baby gate thing. i really tried. Lived in a fantasy world, really. I moved it up. I moved it down, but added a panel to the top. I removed the panel, moved the gate again and re-installed the panel on the other end. The panel, by the way, was the top of one of those mini coolers. Really gave the whole process a lot of thought. RefreakingGardless, he was up and over and into all that is sharp, permanent and inedible before I had my drillbits away. These gates, these contraptions, inventions, they simply existed to boggle adult minds and injure adult private parts, to mystify and annoy the cats, and they were fun at parties.

But with each tweak, each adaption, LRHF would simply, patiently watch as I drilled and anchored and leveled and cursed and drilled again (because I cannot level anything. ANYTHING. Ask anybody. It's a nightmare). Upon completion, I would (metaphorically) stand back and admire my handiwork, brush the sawdust from my hands and gather up the tools. Bout three squeaks and a thump later, LRHF was at my heels. Gee, that gate was fun too, mommy. Now let's staple stuff to the catbox and taste the surge protector.

God, I just wanted to keep him safe, you know? It's not Sing-Sing here. I'm by myself with them a lot (A LOT) and ever since I admitted to myself that there are no servant/ fairies (that's the first step you know, admitting it), I am often engaged in tasks are best completed, well, without their help.

There. I said it.

I have many tools. Some are sharp (see entry re: upholstery stapler), some are heavy, and some are um...surprisingly quick-bonding. So I need to know that he's safe while I'm trying to be safe (again, see stapler entry).

So far so good with the dutch doors. There's a lot of knocking, but mostly, he likes to balance his cup on waaay up on the ledge (all I see is the little hand and the cup--like some crazy noir puppet show) and I swear he times me to see how long before his refill arrives.

But I can't get that song out of my head. Double Dutch something or other. Because I really need more nonsense up there. And you and I both know that the only proven cure to this sort of thing is the theme song from the Banana Splits Show (How old are YOU??). Ah, but the cure trumps the condition , believe me.

*sigh*

One banana, two banana, three banana four..., sing along, you know you want to...la la la....