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Proof
Alex is deep into the Terrible Twos, and into every cabinet. In his room, he pulls wipes from the plastic box and books from the shelves. In the living room, he pulls videocassettes
out of the entertainment unit and flings open the unit door to fiddle with the cornucopia of stereo buttons. In the kitchen, he opens the pantry and swiftly shatters a jar of pepper flakes. The glass sparkles on the tile floor.
He slides open the kitchen cabinet and lifts out the colander and the grater. He hefts my mom's old skillet, 10 pounds of antique New England cast-iron that could crush a toddler's
foot with one drop.
"Alex no!"
Since June of 1998, people have tried to tell us that Alex might never hit this stage, that he might spend years hooked to tubes and wires, that he had sensory issues, that he
"didn't know where his body was in space." I wish some of those people would come around now so I could leave Alex with them and go get a coffee.
My first attempt at childproofing came six months ago; readers may recall Alex's reaction to the toilet-lid lock. He pulled in vain at the toilet seat lid, marveled at the such
plastic technology, then, I guess about two days later, destroyed the latch. I recently snapped the last parts of it into the trashcan as we were moving.
 In our new apartment, I've taped shut the door of the entertainment unit
using four pieces (one strip of tape turned out to be just an additional puzzle for Alex). The only cabinet I've had a chance to formally childproof is the one under the sink that opens onto the garbage disposal switch. So I head to the
baby store's Home Safety Department, where I find pieces of plastic to secure everything in my house, from the broom closet to the VCR. The devices are easy to install but suspiciously cheap. Could other parents have my problem?
I buy outlet plugs (we had two plugs: one came with the apartment and I swiped the other from the hospital when Edwin was born). I also buy cabinet door latches and doorknob covers.
A bagful of peace of mind for less than $7!
I come home and dump the outlet plugs on the dining room table in front of Alex, who is eating in his booster seat. "Here, Alex," "I tell him, get a load of
these." Sensing immediately that the plugs aren't food, Alex tries to eat one.
"Now we'll see what's what."
I snap on the doorknob covers. Alex can't turn the knob unless he somehow learns to squeeze the buttons on the side of the cover. A little lid also seals off the push-button lock,
which is handy for the inside of the bathroom.
Instantly the cover on the bedroom knob spellbinds Alex. He throws his weight on it like a hero hanging on the dungeon chains -- more attention than he's ever paid to this doorknob
before. In a few minutes I hear a tinkle of a screw on the floor.
"Alex!"
 We have a handyman coming to finish our renovation, so I ask him to put on the
childproof drawer latches (it will take him about 15 minutes and would take me half a day). He screws the plastic white latches in so the drawers open only about an inch. He does three drawers -- the ones with the heavy pots, the one with
mom's old frying skillet, and the one with the Pyrex measuring cup -- and the pantry. When he's done, all four close with a thoroughly safe snap.
Now we'll see what's what. Alex comes in and tugs on the drawers. They open an inch. He squeals and tries again. Again he squeals, and heads off to the kitchen outlets. Nope, still
plugged.
He toddles off for fresh adventure elsewhere. He looks pretty certain of where he is in space. In a few minutes I hear a crash in his room. A few minutes later he toddles back. I'll
check the crash later. Right now, Jill pulls at the pantry door. She pulls and pulls.
"Wait," she says, "I don't know how to open this."
I show her, although I do wait until Alex isn't watching. Someday, Alex and I will play this game again, with the lock on the video game or the Club on the steering wheel. Someday
sooner than I think.
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