On Sunday, my son started crawling. He’d been trying for weeks now, doing the rocking on all fours and swimming motions until he’d get frustrated and start to cry. So, we were thrilled when he finally figured it out; the neurons in his brain all zapped at the same time and he scooted around.

Scratch that.

I was thrilled. My husband? Not so much.

After the initial, “Oh my god, he learned something new” feeling wore off, my husband turned into our house’s President of Homeland Security. Suddenly, EVERYTHING became a death-trap/potential injury. The remote control: dangerous electrical-shorting device. The coffee table: sharply-edged apparatus. Curtains: material which can be used in a noose-like manner. And so on.

While I see his point and understand the importance of child-proofing our place, I guess I’m just a lot more laid-back since I’m the oldest of four siblings and have pretty much seen it all. He, in turn, is the youngest of four siblings and doesn’t have the memory of his sister inserting a penny into an electrical socket the way I do. (And she turned out normal. Well, I not normal, per se, but she is physically fine.)

Like tonight, when I went to answer the door and came back to find my son sucking on the dog’s bone. My husband was ready to call the ER while I shrugged it off.

I’ve tried to tell him this is just the beginning; just wait until he starts walking. But the mere mention of toddling nearly sent my husband to the store to buy bubble wrap to encase our furniture, the television and the cats.

So, enjoy your lives ladies and gents. I’ll be here. At home. Trying to prevent my husband from turning my child into The Baby In The Plastic Bubble.

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