A Dangerous Dinner Guest

So we were invited to dinner the other night at the home of one of Miles’ school friends. The boys are great buds, but I only know the other mother casually. Sure, I said, we’d love to come. But my husband has to work late so it’ll be just me and I’ll have to bring the baby, too, is that OK? Of course, she said, no problem.

So the 3 of us show up to their house, a diaper bag, portable highchair, and various other baby paraphernalia in tow. Immediately, I get a little nervous. They have several flights of uncarpeted stairs and, since they have no babies, no baby gates. That’s OK, I tell myself, swallowing my concerns as we head into the living room.

The boys are coloring. Riley instantly swoops in on a black marker and runs off with it. And, yes, he knows how to get the caps off. I pry it from his sticky grip as he screeches. We’re off to a good start.

Next, we go into the playroom. We’re bound to be safer in here. The older boy starts demonstrating his electric train set and nearly has a fit when Riley comes crashing over and picks up the caboose, derailing the whole train. The boy gets it set up again, only to have the baby trip over the track as he’s trying to escape. Oh, lordy.

I swoop him up and try to distract him with some wooden blocks. But when I take Miles to the bathroom for a minute, Riley seizes the opportunity to grab a giant box of Legos off a shelf. Which he then proceeds to dump out -- ALL over the floor. The tiniest, sharpest Legos I’ve ever seen scatter in a zillion directions. And of course he quickly shoves a handful in his mouth.

The other mom leaps to clean it up, apologizing that her house is not baby-proof. Don’t be silly, I reassure her. My child ferrets out danger like a heat-seeking missile.

In a room full of pillows, he would injure himself on a feather poking out of one. He has managed to get a ball lodged in his open jaw, his fingers caught in toilet seats, and his head stuck in shirts. He regularly falls off tables and chairs, and snatches knives from the dishwasher. The other day I found him walking around with an outlet-protector in his mouth.

Dinner proceeds with Riley flinging food and utensils off his tray, and grabbing for wineglasses and napkins. Then, when I let him down from the table, he amuses himself by digging in our hostess’ potted plants. I bet she’s glad she invited US over!

Personally, I can’t wait till the evening is over and we can return to the relative safety (as it were) of our own home. At least I know what to expect there. Like how at any moment the baby could whisk the placemat off the table, taking my cup of coffee with it and showering us both with hot liquid. Is it any wonder we don’t get more dinner invitations?