babyproofing

Little Mr. Isaac is turning seven months. It’s crazy. There he is. My walking calendar. He’s doing all kinds of things like trying out real food like applesauce and watered down rice cereal. (You gave him banana? my sister asks in wonder as we discuss his eating habits. "Like, from a banana?" Once again I am found out as the earthy crunchy black sheep, shunning jars in favor of what the foods looked like before Gerber got their hands on it.)

Besides a slowly evolving menu, Isaac’s motor skills are improving too. He is fond of rolling in one smooth swoop from the middle of the living room to completely under the futon. I look under to find him, little mechanic, lying on his back checking out the flaws in the mattress. He protests when I pull him out and I’m usually sorry that I have passed up this chance at distraction from teeth five and six, still taunting us from just beneath the gum line, keeping us all up at night with their promise of greater things than bananas.

And as he grows, I am daunted by the thought of babyproofing my apartment. I was lamenting losing all my lower bookshelves or losing the books and photo albums on them to my newly mobile baby and where-will-I-put-them-we-have-no-storage when one helpful soul asked if I "scrapbooked". She further offered that there is a group at her church once a week that "scrapbooks" together and includes "women like me". Holy shit. Who, I tremble to inquire, are "women like me"???? And what are they doing pasting borders down over tea and godly conversation???? If I ever use the verb "to scrapbook" shoot me, no questions asked. With all due respect to those who enjoy creating scrapbooks, I think I’d rather fall on a rusty saw.

We should be handing to our babies who we are. We should be offering them– along with mashed bananas – a healthy dose of our selves, but the self I was has suspended certain key pieces in order to take on this consuming, albeit temporary job of new mom, and now more of me, i.e., my books, my books, and my memories need to be literally packed away too? Color me the cranky artist non-scrapbooking type, but am I the only one that finds identity crises in babyproofing?