Childproof Door Locks Are The New Atlantis

Many people think that a simple solution to your toddler escaping first bed, then room, is to purchase childproof door locks. They sound so fool proof on Amazon.com.

They look even more effective due to their draconian, confusing curlicues and deceptively blase' design. They even leave a large gap in the door so you and your kid can stare each other down.

And for the first application, they may be visually arresting to the point of immobilizing your wanderlusty 2 year old. 

But the luster of newness fades quickly. Soon they get down to the business of solving this new barrier to their freedom.

If Espen were to be cast as a dinosaur, he would be Velociraptor. You can actually see his brain figuring out how to bring down authority, door locks, and anything else standing between him and his objective. 

Case in point, last week I was home alone with the little raptor. It was Naptime and the child was not interested. His plans involved more bagels, more sand, more  freedom. Certainly not sleeping. 

Mom: Come on, Wesp. It's time for naps.

Espen: Why.

Mom: Because rest helps you get bigger and stronger.

Espen: My babe-o! (which means, "I'm Babe-o. Which means he's about to flip into his interpretation of what babies are like. Usually this involves a high pitched sustained sound like a siren.)

Mom: Ok. Babe-oes need rest even more than big boys because they are so small and growing.

Espen: Mama, go away.

Mom: Alright, but you need to stay in your bed and sleep.

Espen: Mama, go away. No put lock on door.

Mom: I won't as long as you stay in bed.

Espen: Ok. Mama go away.

So I leave, only to have him bound out of his room two minutes later.

Espen: Helloooooo mama!

Mom: Ok, now we are going back to your room and mom is putting the lock on.

Espen: (Wails) Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?!?!?!?!?!

Mom: Because that was the deal. You knew this.

Espen: NO PUT LOCK ON DOOR!!!

Mom: Next time you can chose to stay in your bedroom and we won't put the lock on.

Deposited in his room, with the lock on, the door has about 2 inch gap between the door and the door jamb. It's a big crack.

Up to this point in time, Espen has responded to the door lock by throwing himself on his bed and ragefully crying until he burns up the excess energy and falls peacefully to sleep.

Today, there was only silence. And the occasional sound of something scraping along the floor. I chose to ignore it as the only thing movable in his room is the large reading chair. 

You would think I'd have learned by now that ignoring strange noises leads to nothing productive.

Mais, non.

Ten minutes pass. Espen giggles. Makes jiggling sounds. Then silence. 

I tiptoe to his room. The door is closed with a tiny crack, just the way he likes it. The childproof door lock is lying quietly on his wooden horsie that I have removed to enhance boredom leading to sleep.

I crack the door. The chair is pushed up against it. Espen is sound asleep.

Not a word, not a "HA HA! MOMMA!" 

Just silent proof that you can't tame a wild animal.

Kitty Litter Sounds Like Cat Food When You Throw It

Well, we bought a house.

That's a whole story, but not for this day.

Today, I invite you to explore the many mysteries of kitty litter with me.

The connection between the two may seem improbable, but please, suspend your disbelief until I reveal the critical bridge.



REVELATION COMMENCING

Espen Camino Eld-Mathis.

Imagine with me if you will, a genteel estate on the edges of Portland. Its grounds are lush, its landscaping approaching wildness. In short, a perfect setting for a lad from the country being introduced to city life.

I, as mother and adult, assumed that Espen would rather play outdoors with me and pruning shears than in the dubiously organized maze we call the 'garage'.

And I was correct, until I spent two minutes vigorously ripping out some feral bush that had taken over the upper third of our front yard.

When I looked up, Espen was no where to be seen, but ominous sounds were coming from the garage. Think, rain stick fighting a corrugated metal roof.

I raced to the garage and beheld the unimaginable.

Espen stood proudly beside Mimi's food dish, which is conveniently located near her litter box.
Both were filled to overflowing with multi-colored cat food.
He was grinning.
"ME FUNNY, MAMA!" he shrieked with delight.
Mimi was busy gorging herself between the massifs of food.

I could not speak so I simply handed him his pruning shears and led him back outside.

We pruned silently for many minutes, my brain attempting to craft a deft parenting lesson out of the 14 pounds of cat food littering the floor like a meaty deluge.

Espen slowly sidled away from me until I barely noticed him creeping towards the garage.

When I heard Rainstick vs Rooftops from the Slums II, I wearily thought, "Oh what difference does it make? There's no clean food left anyway."

My first mistake was assuming Espen would settle for a repeat performance of ME FUNNY, MA.

My second was not returning to the scene of the crime immediately.

I waited an extra minute to breathe myself into zen like calm.

And then I saw it.

Espen stood in the same spot I had discovered him before with a few key differences.

1. His shoes were off.
2. His hands were clutching lumps of sand.
3. The cat food on the floor had been covered with a greenish substance looking vaguely like fertilizer.

Or.
Oh.
GOD.
NOOO.

Kitty litter.

"ME FUNNY, A LOT!!!" he yelled, hurling the clumps of cat pee at me.

My brain vomited denial over my eyes to protect them. I have no idea what I actually did at that point.

What I remember next is holding Espen under the shower head as I simultaneously filled his mouth with toothpaste and scrubbed his body with hand sanitizer. And soap.

Repeatedly.

I probably did a fair amount of shrieking too.

I had no idea this level of gross was even possible.

He later told me, "Mama, me no eat kitty poop."
At least there's that.

Espen and the Great Fuckoff

Tobias, Espen and I were riding home one day, enjoying a peaceful silence, when Espen suddenly shrieked, "Fuckoff!!"

I looked at Tobias with accusation in my eyes.
He was already looking at me me with the same assumption.

"What have you been SAYING AROUND THE CHILD?!"

We sat in silence, trying not to move quickly and reveal that our brains had been pickled by an angelic looking 2 year old's potty mouth.

Espen grew more animated.

"Fuckoff! FUCKOFF!!!!" he insisted, rocking around in his car seat.

Silence continued as Tobias and I continued judging the hell out of each other's negligent parenting.

Then we noticed Espen pointing out the window.

"Fuckoff!!! Beep! Beep!!!!"

We were passing Home Depot.

And that's when I remembered that his Grandfather was inclined to take Espen to Home Depot to chase the forklifts and watch them take things up and down off shelves.

"Espen," I asked, slightly trembling, "Are you talking about forklifts?"

"Fuckoffs!!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!!" Espen nodded enthusiastically, grinning and pointing towards the Depot.

Forklifts, indeed.

The Bib Monster

As a wee chap, getting Espen into a bib was like trying to slow dance with a hungry coyote. Great care was required, to say nothing of focused intention. I figured we'd just circle each other warily until he grew out of toddler eating messes, but recently, something miraculous has happened.

Espen was also a passionately independent little fellow, often rocketing into stranger's arms instead of hanging with mom. And then one day, the sky fell.

Suddenly, I find myself with a little boy who demands both his mother and his bibs at the drop of a hat. Whereas, not two weeks ago, going bibless was like handing him a candy bar, now he looks at me with disbelief and shock when I show up with food sans bib. He jabs at his chest, furiously motioning to his tummy and trousers and insists on, "Bee! Bee!" And silly me, I spend about 5 minutes trying to figure out what he wants so desperately. 

Instead of being that kid in a cafe that runs laughing from their mother, he has become my tiny cling-on, hysterically wailing, "Mom-eeeee! Mom-eeee!" when he gets out of sight. That is strangely heart warming and breaking as I had nearly reconciled myself to being content with the occasional "More berries Mom!" for our emotional contact. 

All this to say, while this might be a phase, it has taught me that what goes around comes around in ways I might never dream possible. At this rate, he'll be playing the piano, dancing and enjoying textile field trips by the time he is 9. I'll keep you posted.

Espen Vs. OMSI

Espen loves the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. It's a Portland icon for children of all ages, and thanks to my bestie Lynsey, we discovered early on that there's a kids room chalk full of amazing kid activities. Giant sandpit with the softest, whitest sand you've ever seen. Waterville where you can splash and play in the safety of an OMSI provided smock. Faux grocery store where you can weigh your fake veggies and meats and set them up in attractive displays.

We got a membership soon thereafter and Espen now squeals "OM-EE!!! Om-EE!" and holds out his hand for a "Samp" (stamp) whenever we get close to it.

Most of the time we go directly to the kid rumpus room, but on this particular day, Espen wanted only to ride the escalator UP and the glass elevator DOWN. (And then up again, thank you very much.) I figured it wouldn't be the first time he'd be fascinated with moving staircases and flying glass boxes, so off we went. A test of my fortitude, you see.

For the next 45 minutes we made a giant circle between two floors in every conceivable combination of ascents and descents. Up the escalator, down the stairs. Up the elevator, down the stairs. Up the stairs, down the elevator. No down the one-way escalator (yet).

Provocatively, I was finding myself being lulled into a gentle, meditative state. OMSI is situated at a particularly picturesque spot on the Willamette River. Espen was a captive audience, so I could mostly stare at the water and enjoy the view.

That is, until the 17th ascent via escalator.
We had made a plan at the bottom.

Me: Ok, Espen, do you want to ride the elevator up AND down this time?"
Espen: Yeah!
Me: Alright, so when we get to the top and the doors open, we just stay there, OK?
Espen: Yeah! UP!

The ride up went smoothly. The waiting was fine. The doors started closing.

Espen looked at me, cackled, and dashed out.

The doors continued to close.

I jammed the "door open" button. (or was it the "door close"?)
Furiously.

Nothing. Except a last look at Espen's face as he realized I was not behind him. I was, in fact, hurtling downwards, away from him.

The wailing began. It was a high whine for the first five feet the elevator dropped and quickly built to a full fledged howl.

My mind raced. Would it be quicker to exit the elevator and run up the stairs or ride the elevator back up as soon as it touched down?

Espen continued to shriek, his vocal projection abilities shattering the impressive din that only hundreds of kids can generate.

Somewhere in the midst of his yowls of Infinite Sadness, I realized the fastest way back to him was staying on the elevator and doing nothing but pressing "2".

While I also realized that the elevator travels no more than 14 feet max, it was like waiting to see if you got a high enough D to graduate high school. You may graduate but you're not getting any medals.

The door slid open and I looked down. Espen was no where to be seen. Slight panic slid around my throat until I heard, "MA-ma!!!" and looked into the eyes of a stranger mom who was holding my kid.

"It's ok," she cooed. "See, your mommy came back."

Le sigh.

I thought about explaining the story but instead took Espen back and said thank you. It'd just sound like an excuse for running to get a latte' and blaming the kid.

Espen waved to the lady, clutching all the while at my neck. Then he looked at me and smiled.

"Poo."

Sure enough, aromas like last night's dinner were wafting out of his britches.

We walked to the car, Espen stretching out his arms, pleading, "OM-EE!! OM-EEEEE!!!!" to everyone we passed along the way.

Good practice for a lifetime of awkward parenting moments.

Stranded in a Subaru

The title may sound vaguely familiar with good cause. Not 8 months ago, the pre-quel to this saga unfolded in the elegant Lincoln Towncar parked in Grandma and Grandpa's garage.

Since then, Espen has grown in both height and coordination. He now boasts abilities such as operating electric locks, starting the electric car and deftly manipulating key fobs. He can climb in and out of a vehicle into his carseat and can reach the front seats with his little feet. We are a merry duo indeed now that Espen's dexterity is on the rise.

One fair Friday in October we headed to the Columbia River Gorge for a fall hike around Latourell Falls. Espen is now a proficient hurler of stones so we spent a good deal of time casting rocks into the creek before returning to Brian the Subaru for lunch. "Let's hit historic Troutdale!" I suggested and Espen smiled in assent.

We landed at an Italian joint run by Latinos and wolfed down mac and cheese. The wind was blowing outside and we were both looking forward to a cozy drive home and the ensuing nap.

I carried Espen to the car, handing him the key fob to distract him as I buckled him into his car seat. I have gotten extremely efficient at this maneuver-it takes me less than five seconds. I've timed myself. Then I grabbed the fob, threw it on the front seat, shut the back door and jogged around to the driver's side.

Up goes the handle.

It stops just shy of opening.
And by "just shy", I do mean, doesn't. Open.
As in, Is Locked.

I know Espen can trigger the fob to make honking noises I cannot reproduce with any combination of buttons. It also takes him at least a minute to achieve so I figured it was safe letting him have free reign of the fob for five seconds. There is no telling how the baby managed this; I suspect that even high speed photography would miss the prestidigitation Espen performed on the fob.

The facts are these:
-All the doors were unlocked when Espen's buns hit his car seat .
-In the five seconds between initial contact and separation, he managed to lock every door in the car. And do it under the ever watchful Eye of Mom.

I stood frozen in place on the main street of downtown Troutdale, the handle glued to my clenched fingers.

Dear God, not again. 

Of course the spare key was at home so I reached into my pocket to phone Tobias.
Where was my phone. For that matter, where was my wallet?

I stared at Espen, wondering how I was going to break the news to him. "Honey, you're locked in the car again. Care to learn how to unbuckle yourself from your car seat this afternoon?"

Once, I can understand, but this just felt like negligence.

The irony was that if he'd been free ranging, the door would've been opened before you could say "GAH!" He's very good at opening car doors now. I made sure of that after the Lincoln Episode. But like any smart monkey, Espen has kept his learning curve steep enough to lull me into a false sense of security.

He smiled and waved from his car seat. He looked at the front of the car. There, on the seat next to the keys, were my thoughtfully placed phone and wallet.

I did what any self-respecting parent would at that point in time. I left my baby unattended and ran a block up the street to the restaurant we'd just left.

"Can I use your phone?" I gasped to the lady at the front desk. "My baby just locked himself in the car."

Yes, I felt guilty for a moment. My BABY locked himself in the car? What kind of lame parent puts it on the toddler? And yet, in moments of extreme intensity, I find myself yelling out the truth, even if it would be wiser to just fib a bit. Or maybe fob.

She smiled at me and said in broken English, "You have triple A? Call them."

Well no, as a matter of fact, I do NOT have triple A because my car insurance provides road-side assistance, but their number is also LOCKED IN THE CAR WITH MY BABY. 

Thankfully that was kept internal.
Still, I didn't want to panic so I dialed Tobias. No answer. WHAT the F.
I called my sister on her cell phone. No answer. Seriously?
I called the hard line at Grandma and Grandpa's house. My sister picked up. Honestly.

"Please go tell Tobi that Espen has locked himself in the car and we are stranded in Troutdale. Tell him to drop everything, get the key and come."

"Oh my god." was my sister's response. Yeah. I'm aware. Thank you.

I was on my way to race outside when a Latino man intercepted me. "You lock baby in car? I bring hanger."

Bless you sweet man and damnit, damnit, damnit.

At least four minutes had elapsed by this time and I ran back to the Subaru where Espen was looking around, still calm, waving, like, "Come ON mom, hello, NAP TIME."

Brian the Subaru was parked next to a metal sculpture gallery which I was casing to see if any pieces could be used as blunt objects to break a window should Espen panic before help arrived.

A woman parallel parked in front of us and smiled. "Hi, how's it going?"

"My baby locked himself in the car."

"Oh! You can call triple A."

So helpful. And off she went. Part of me was extremely baffled. Apparently a section of my brain puts stranded baby above the crowd appeal of rescuing a cat. This, I learned, is another example of my unrealistic views. Several groups of people passed, asked what was wrong, suggested triple A and moved on.

Meanwhile, Restaurant Hanger Guy had appeared with pliers and hangers in hand. For the next fifteen minutes we shoved metal rods through the rubber flashing around the driver's side window and came annoyingly close to touching the keys. Finally, I grabbed the pliers and jammed them between the window and the door frame. Not a word was exchanged between Latin Rescuer and myself besides groans and sharp inhalations when the metal would scrape over the "unlock" button.

As a consumer note to the key fob designers at Subaru. NEVER make the the Unlock button slippery and convex. It should be a concave, sticky chasm that sucks metal hangers to it like a magnet.

Around this time, Espen started to wilt a little. To his credit, he remained optimistic, even amused, for twenty minutes, but after awhile, even the Brave reach their Limit. He began to emit little sobs punctuated with high pitched wails that pierce the most stalwart heart. I started towards the metal sculptures.

As I turned, I saw a looming beacon of Red Hope cruising down the street towards me. The firetruck slowed as it approached, no doubt because my Latin Knight and I were furiously trying to break into the Subaru. They had their headphones on so I pointed at them, then pointed at my car and made a twisting key motion. A ginger fireman laughed and said, "We'll turn around."

That calmed Espen right down. He loves machines. Restaurant Guy gathered his tools (pliers and hangers) and headed back to his business. "Thank you so much!" I yelled after him. He smiled and kept walking.

The firefighters pulled right up next to Brian the Subaru and
brought out a zipped bag that looked like it contained a huge axe. "Where the blazes is Tobias?" I thought. "This could get expensive."

They extracted a plastic wedge the size of a hammer and a metal rod that looked like a thick hanger with a hook on the end. Their plan was the same as mine, just with better presented tools. Fine. Just get my baby out of the car.

The second before they hooked the lock, Tobias and my sister showed up in a cloud of dust and screeching brakes. "Stop!" they yelled, "We have The Key!"

Summer tossed the key over the firemen in slow motion, I snagged it and opened the door before they could trip the latch. Tobias lunged into the back seat and freed Espen from the car seat with the drama of a late night talk show host. Espen wanted to climb in the firetruck. He also wanted a hug. So torn. So close to nap time.

Tobias and I loaded Espen into Evie, the electric car, which is impossible to lock yourself in or out of. Summer drove Brian home.

One of my friends has assured me that her toddler pulls the same kinds of shenanigans. All I can wonder is, "What's next? Bank vault? Speeding train? Cockpit?" Stay tuned.

I'm 1, Walking Independently and Mom Stopped Pumping!

Momentous things tend to happen in threes.  Celebrities are born or die in triads, godheads tend to run in trinities and babies and moms make big transitions in trios.  Also, cake. Danish Layer Cake, to be specific.

.

Case in point.  Espen is officially out of babyland according to Tobias' boss Heine, who is apparently an expert on both Business Intelligence empire building and accurate nomenclature for aging transitions of children.  Espen is now a child, thanks to turning 1.   

Not only has he graduated infancy, he also decided to make the transition from largely assisted steps to predominantly unassisted toddling on his birthday.  

The Brain of the Bear has a flare for well timed revelations.  For the majority of March 31 he ambled around, sitting on balloons, sloshing about on other babies and cackling without restraint as he walked from chicken coop to flower pot, down the canyon and back again.  You'd think he'd discovered the wheel, cause this kid was rollin'. 

He gets the most blissed out expression on his face as he experiences uninterrupted walking stretches.  It's as though he's realizing the freedom of his feet, that the possibilities of mobility are as big as his wanting. The uncensored joy, free from ego, purely present, is phenomenally inspiring.  It makes me want to learn to walk every day, which I can, if I am willing to let go of expectations of rightness.

I was also experiencing some liberation on his birthday.  I pumped the Milk Bags for the last time with the fancy pants Medela pump that has been a permanent accent in our house for the last year.  It's hard to believe that I now have 4-5 hours back that I can spend playing with Espen or working on other projects.  

Getting back both the time and the "milk energy" as Tobias calls it has resulted in a renewed application of will towards my writing and singing.  Suddenly, all of the perseverance, patience and will to nurture developed over the last year has the opportunity to extend to myself and Tobias and hopefully, the larger world.  I aim to make a real go of using my voice on this planet and to expand into the Largeness of Being.  Producing good writing and free singing is where I'm starting now that time is flowing into my court again.  

Now that everyone is fully afoot and Spring is in the air, the blog posts may become a bit spare but the adventures will continue apace.  Check Facebook for up to date happenings and I will endeavor to keep the truly momentous stories and happenings on this site in perpetua.

P.S. If and when the word "Deutna" (DOOT-nah) becomes a new linguistic meme, Espen is to be credited with its creation.  We believe it means something to the effect of, "Hey! Woah.  That's oooh."