My wife and I are fairly intelligent people (although one of us is smarter, but modesty prevents me from saying which of us it is). We’re definitely smart enough to deal with your average kid. Unfortunately, our little guy is not your average kid. Not that he’s outwitted us–at least, not yet–but he sure isn’t making life easier.
For example, as soon as he was mobile he quickly figured out how cupboards work. So, being the brilliant parents we are, we got out our childproofing kit and put child-proof locks on the cupboards with dangerous chemicals and sharp gardening tools.
Then, last week, I hear rummaging coming from the cupboard under the kitchen sink. My wife was in the dining room. The cats don’t rummage. I walked in and there was our son, proudly opening and closing the doors, the two pieces of the lock dangling from either knob.
Of course, I assumed I’d just failed to adequately lock the thing the last time I was in there. I reattached it, making sure everything was set, and then condescendingly mussed our son’s hair. “Won’t be getting in there again,” I said, winking at him.
I almost made it back to the living room when I heard rattling again. I ran back into the kitchen and there he was, grinning and swinging from the doors, thumping his chest and howling like a banshee.
I still don’t know how he did it. All I know is that I had to get out the drill, mount some hardware, buy a padlock, and use three rolls of duct tape for good measure–all to ensure his own safety. (And maybe, just maybe, prove a point to him about trying to outsmart old Dad.) Now if I can just figure out the safety code he programmed into the TV remote, I’m going to go relax on the couch and watch my shows.