Baby proofing is for the birds. It doesn’t prevent every imminent danger and if you’re watching your kid, you’re gonna be fine. This wasn’t always my opinion, it’s a philosophy I developed out of experience with my first born, who proved that every safety net was useless because he had no interest in opening cupboards or sticking things in light sockets. He didn’t like to hang around opening and closing doors and toilets. All those stupid plastic knick-knacks that one spends time putting up to safeguard their boo-boo-babies is a gimmick, only benefitting the stress level of the parent who likely feels relief that the room is safer for little Foo Foo to roll around in. That’s what my son taught me. But then I had my daughter, and now I’m eating crow.
My second born is no fucking joke. If it’s on the floor, invisible to the naked eye, and can kill you, my daughter has already put it in her mouth. Adrian is curious about every little thing. And even worse, she’s persistent. Girlfriend will NOT quit trying until she gets the results she wants. I’m low-key super excited and proud that she’s exhibiting such fierceness and had no idea how
lazy easy my son actually was as a baby, but she needs to relax. I can’t just keep saving her life like I have nothing else to do with my day. I mean, if I don’t make dinner, we’re ALL gonna die.
Yet a year has passed and still nothing at home is baby proofed. Better late than never? Nah, that simply won’t allow me to maintain the level of laziness I’ve grown accustomed to. Though I realized early on that Adrian was a totally different beast than my firstborn, I opted out of baby proofing because I underestimated her. This means for the past year I’ve been trying to out hawk-eye the hawk-eyed. Instead of resting in the confidence of my baby-proofed abode, I’ve been living on a gamble, a prayer, and a lot of intervention as I shout from the kitchen sink, “NO ADRIAN, DON’T TOUCH THAT!” My hands dripping soap while she smiles gladly at the door she’s six seconds away from slamming her fingers in.
But I keep telling myself that since she’s a year old, I’ve missed my window. I’ve lost the opportunity to really benefit from baby proofing because she’s getting older. Or at least I’m banking and hoping that all the bumps, bruises, and close calls have taught her something. I know they’ve taught me that any contraption you can buy to avoid being omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent, is worth its weight in gold. Because when you have a baby that lives for the thrill of dying, bubble wrap is life.