It All Started with the Carpet

We have light-colored Berber carpet in our family room. It wasn’t in great shape when we moved in 7 years ago. We always meant to replace it, but then we got a dog who wasn’t housebroken. Then we had a baby, and carpet was the least of our worries. We also weathered several storms that caused the skylights to leak onto the rug.

Then, we had a second baby. This baby spit up all day, every day, all over every surface in the house. We spot-cleaned, steam-cleaned, and covered the carpet with area rugs. Clearly, there was no point replacing it until the barrage of bodily fluids ceased.

So here it is, 2 years later, and we finally decided to do something about the carpet. But first we have to remove the old, unused woodstove that sits on a raised brick platform in the middle of the family room. We used it once shortly after we moved in, before we had kids. The entire room filled with smoke, forcing us to open all the doors in the house, thereby reversing any warmth that the stove generated. That was the end of that.

Basically, this big black stove is a danger magnet. Kids are drawn to it. They climb on it, bang on it, draw on it with chalk. And the brick platform it sits on -- square, with raised, sharp corners -- is just high enough to trip over. And believe me, kids trip over it constantly. We covered the edges with foam, which my younger son promptly took big bites out of.

So this weekend we had a contractor come over to give us an estimate on removing the stove and bricks. This is how that went:

Contractor: “Sure, that’s no problem. Since we have to patch the ceiling where the chimney was, would you like us to go ahead and patch the drywall around the skylights where you have water damage?”

Us: “Yeah, that makes sense. Sure.”

Contractor: “How old are those skylights, anyway? At least 20 years old? They don’t even make those anymore. You’re losing a lot of heat out those windows, you know. I could put in some new ones for you.”

Us: “Um, well, if they’re THAT old… And they DO leak… Maybe just price them for us?”

Contractor: “The thing is, they make 'em smaller now. I’d have to build out new frames, and add some new shingles around the windows on the roof. They won’t match, though. But if the roof is also 20 years old, you might want to think about reshingling the whole thing. It’d be cheaper for me to do it now.”

Us: “Oh, boy, I don’t know…”

Contractor: “’Cause it could actually end up COSTING you money down the road if you don’t take care of it now. I’m just letting you know. It’s your decision.”

Us: “Sure. Yeah. Um, price that out for us too, OK?”

Contractor: “I notice you don’t have a vent in this bathroom over here. That’s probably why you’ve got some mold up there on the ceiling. I could put in a vent real easy for you, while I’m doing the roof.”

Us: “Vent? Huh?”

Contractor: “So what do you think about adding another skylight? Wouldn’t be that hard, since I’m already up there, you know.”

Us: “Uh, we’ve got this thing to go to soon, so we should probably let you go now… Yeah, just send us the estimate. We’ll call you! Thanks!” We closed the door behind him, dejected.

The carpet’s not THAT bad, I guess. I mean, with all the toys scattered around and unless it’s really bright sunlight, you can hardly see the spit-ups stains at all. Right? RIGHT?!

Babies and Beer Bottles Don’t Mix

If you’re squeamish about blood, stop reading now. But if you’re a mom, you’ve probably encountered more blood than Freddy Krueger. And if you haven’t yet, you will.

I hate to break it to you, but kids get hurt. If they’re anything like my boys, they get hurt A LOT.

The other day we were playing in our yard enjoying the beautiful fall weather. Riley, 20 mos., aka “Dr. Destructo,” went up on the porch to grab his toy lawnmower. Only he got distracted – by a broken beer bottle in the recycling bin which he promptly put in his mouth and took a swig from. Blood, hysterics, and panic ensued.

In case you’re thinking, “What kind of a dumb-a** leaves broken bottles around?” let me just say we had recently moved the recycling bin outside thinking it was safer there than in the kitchen. The porch isn’t a place where the boys play. Or so I thought.

And anyway, my sons have injured themselves on steps, doors, bookcases, bathtubs, and plenty of other nonthreatening household objects. So unless I want to outfit them with bubble-wrap coveralls and football helmets for the rest of their childhoods, they’re gonna get hurt.

ALL kids get hurt. It’s a fact of life. You can babyproof your house up to the rafters and your child will probably still manage to injure himself. (Remind me to tell you about the time Miles got his head stuck in a kitchen chair.) You can’t protect kids from every possible danger. (But you should totally try. Maybe if you start early enough, babies get used to wearing helmets and bubble-wrap.)

Believe it or not, I used to be so uncomfortable with blood, needles, and all things ER-related that I would pass out at the mere thought of it. I’m not kidding. I actually wrote an article about my condition, which is called “vasovagal syncope” and is more common than you’d think.

Needless to say, post-kids I’ve gotten used to the sight of blood. When your child’s bleeding from the mouth, you don’t have the luxury of fainting. You spring into action with washcloths, Popsicles, and calls to the pediatrician.

The first time my older son cut himself (on a doorframe), I rushed him to the ER, called my husband to leave work, and endured hours of X-rays and doctors. He was fine. Now that I’m on Kid #2, I’m no longer so quick to panic.

I know now, for example, that mouth injuries often look worse than they are because the blood mixes with saliva. I know that a split lip doesn’t necessarily need stitches unless the cut crosses the lip line or doesn’t stop bleeding after 30 min. I know that you have 5 hours to decide whether to get stitches or not. (After that, it’s too late.) And I know that Popsicles are a godsend for kids who scream at the sight of an icepack. (Although when blood mixes with a green Incredible Hulk Popsicle, it’s not pretty.)

It’s awful, it’s heartbreaking, it’s upsetting when your baby hurts himself. You feel like the worst mother ever. But it’ll be OK. Like they say, kids are resilient. And what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And anything else people say in these situations that sounds wise.

All I know is, I should buy stock in Batman band-aids and Flavor-Ice. And at least I don’t have to worry about fainting at the doctor's anymore.

FLICK O' THE WEEK: I finally saw "Babies," the documentary about the first year of life for 4 babies around the world. Adorable and awe-inspiring. And I guess I can't get too worked about a beer bottle if moms in Africa are shaving their infants' heads with giant buck knives.

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?