He’s inordinately proud of himself.
Every milestone, it seems, comes with an increased level of panic and security in the house. No longer is it enough to clean up marbles and other chokeables from the floor; now I have to make sure that the spilled yogurt is immediately cleaned up from the chair and that Freddie doesn’t crawl too close to the stools (they tip over when he tries to hoist himself up to standing on them).
Not long from now, I’ll have to re-lock all the cabinets and figure out how to keep the toilets from attracting baby hands. Charles always went after the toilets, but Jamie never did, so we haven’t locked them since Charles was a baby. Given the frequency with which I find Freddie playing in the dog water bowl, playing in the toilets is a reasonable worry. Toilet seat up? Easy access to whatever’s in the toilet (oh, your toilet only ever has water when no one is standing in front of it or sitting on it? Mine has any number of things in it at all times: poop, pee, dinosaur figurines, Cheerios… life with children is pretty exciting). Toilet seat down? Perfect opportunity for a small person to lift the seat up and then smash it down on his own fingers (we are experienced in such. We are also experienced in wiener smashing, when one child wanted to lift the toilet seat juuuuuust a little bit instead of putting it all the way up to pee and then accidentally dropped it).
Splish Splash
Also, books on the bookshelf within reach are being dumped to the floor every day and the poor, beleaguered houseplant is being decimated by small hands and teeth.
This is why we can’t have nice things. Good thing I don’t really care, right? Pass the wine.
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