…that, my dear hearts, is the question. We didn’t go to much effort for Guy, frankly, and I’m pretty sure we missed a trick, there. We’ve got stair gates and a few randomly placed plug socket covers, and stashed away in a drawer somewhere are lots and lots of cupboard locks (blatantly not locking any cupboards) but that’s about it. The thing is, if ever there was a baby who needed his environment proofed against him, it’s Guy. He is into everything, quite literally. He’s as fast as quicksilver and as crafty as a fox. Nothing is safe from my explorative little chap. I often imagine that this is what it must be like living with Ralph Fiennes. Any and all unexplored territory must be quickly explored and conquered, chaps, and don’t spare the horses.
There was method behind the original madness of not madly baby-proofing everything. The thinking was, it is better to teach my son not to go into Domestos-saturated cupboards from an early age rather than just making certain areas no-go zones. How very naive I was. You’d have though, wouldn’t you, that I’d have known better. After all, he’s not my first child. I have since discovered that teaching Guy that some areas are less safe than others is like training a Border Terrier to not bark. The dog is untrainable, and so, apparently, is the baby. (If you remember, there are clear and uncanny similarities between my dog and my baby which I highlighted in my post Four Legs=Good, Two Legs=Bad and this is just another example of my son’s canine tendencies).
The other, marginally more honest, reason why I didn’t baby-proof the house into submission is laziness. Well, I’m paying for that laziness now, because I can’t take my eyes off him for a second. There’s no, “Aaaah, how nice! I can sit down for 5 minutes while my lovely sweet and completely tame baby is happily playing with his toys” because the aforementioned ‘tame’ baby is most likely using his toy box as an improvised step ladder to climb as far up the wall as he possibly can in order to grab a nice bit of art work or a couple of strategically placed photo frames. Laziness is no longer an option if I want my ‘tame’ baby safe, sound and fully intact. Another excellent example of this: all babies can be kept fairly quiet with a couple of Tupperware bowls, a wooden spoon, a baking tray and a silicone spatula (heaven for babies, right there). Mine is content with this for about 1 and a half minutes tops, before he is off to explore what else is lurking in the cupboards from whence this bounty came. And, of course, with no cupboard locks, the kitchen is his very own playground. Lucky boy. Silly (not at all lazy) mummy.
The biggest baby-proofing problem that I face on a daily basis, though, is The Hatch. Built into the wall between the living room and the kitchen, The Hatch is a very convenient and useful hole through which food can be passed, conversations can be held, TV can be watched, and babies can clamber. Oh, the joy of it. Nothing, apparently, beats hauling one’s self up onto the sofa, scrabbling up the back of the sofa and wriggling gleefully though The Hatch onto the kitchen counter on the other side. Which, of course, comes complete with a not inconsiderable drop onto the hard stone kitchen floor. He can accomplish this in the blink of an eye. Believe me, it takes a heartbeat. He’s been practicing, and he’s getting faster all the time! Actually, forget Ralph Fiennes, it’s more like living with a Chimpanzee. Anyway, following another near-miss, I’ve moved the sofa away from its spot under The Hatch. There’s really nowhere else the poor sofa can sensibly live, and in its current resting place, it looks awkward, abashed and slightly ashamed of itself. Like a wallflower at a dance. It knows it doesn’t belong there, and so do I: we can’t watch the television comfortably and it just doesn’t feel right. Guy, predictably, is very cross about the whole thing, and is busy scouting around looking, I suppose, for another route through The Hatch or just another baby-sized mountain to scale. The bookcase is looking like quite a good bet for a good bit of Ralph-style mountaineering but, then again, he’s been eyeing up the armchair as a prospective ladder up to The Hatch. If only he could get the cat to vacate the armchair for long enough, I’m quite sure that The Hatch would be back on the agenda.
I think, really, I’ve answered my own question posed at the beginning of this ramble. To baby-proof or not to baby-proof is, indeed, the question. The answer, my dear hearts, is DO! Especially if you have a son who’s name begins with a G, finishes with a Y and has a U sandwiched in the middle. My mission for today is calling my wonderful builder and odd-job man Peter and begging him to come and make two little doors (with a lock) for The Hatch.
The sofa will be delighted.
Mummy but... 