The invasion of the grandchild

Baby S had his first taste of cat food today. No this isn't some new holistic, hippie baby food making venture I'm trying. He dipped right into the bowls of 'Sheeba' and 'Maya' with such lightning flash speed he didn't even bother to ask if they minded. There wasn't time. In the swish of a Bombay show cat's tail he'd already inspected it, properly smushed it and had it all in his mouth by the time I even noticed. Naturally I immediately stuck my finger down his throat. He's getting used to this gesture.

And no I'm not a bad mother. I'm just a mother who finds it impossible to babyproof my own mother's house without having her lose her mind. The woman is clearly on the brink. We've moved in for the duration of summer, taken over her master bedroom, become germ crazy enough to mop every morning and have actual floor inspections throughout the afternoon, "mom what's this spot...I JUST cleaned this floor huh, what's this!?" I've been militantly patrolling the cupboards and moving all the dainty, lower level bookshelf knick-knacks to higher ground. My mother, a woman very attatched to her eclectic, knick-knack collection and not afraid to grasp the wrist of those who would dare move it, has learned that I'm the goddamned Jackie Chan of stashing her crap. She won't mess with me. Her flower vases and her giant, baby crushing lamps, crystal kitty cat candy trays and silky flowers have all gradually been reassigned to the garage. There is very little of her personality left, just a giant Graco and a towering Fisher Price ball dropper toy. She has been caught several times just standing in the living room, staring off into the swimming pool, aching to tell me where I can stuff these things, but fearful of the mommy-martial artist who has emerged from my normally mild mannered self.

Oh god, and that swimming pool. I don't even want to think about the pool. We must keep all of the doors locked. We must call the house five times an hour when going out to be sure the doors are secure. We must not wake up screaming in a pool of sweat in the middle of the night worried that the worst has happened. I hate that damn pool, a mother's worst nightmare.

Babyproofing my house won't be easier than this, but at least I can toss what I want where I want it without a decorator's lament. Hey I'm all for thinking we should all just be able to move into Fisher Price condominiums for the first two years of the baby's life--everything wildly colorful and ergonomically correct in smooth, molded plastic. Oh well I think my own house will soon become a chic, Fisher Price baby haven anyway. At the rate it's slowly taking over my life, I may as well just accept it and enjoy it.

And sorry again mom. Those knick knacks will be back on the shelf in due time, barely missed but you're never going to forget those little scuffed baby knees who zipped across your rooms for two very short months. Who loves you baby!