Garbage Men

I’ve accepted many changes in my life since the kids came. I now survive on six hours of sleep a night for example, or the perpetual wail I accept as background noise.

I don’t know if I can ever accept this childproofing, though. When the kids start playing in the cabinets, I install cabinet locks. When I realize the cabinet locks are too hard to install, I move everything to the top shelves. When I run out of shelving space, I move non-lethal items like towels and pans to the lower shelves. I can accept these changes, especially since I rarely have clean towels and pans to store anyway.

When the boys start knocking over trashcans, I move them onto shelves and behind locked doors. When the boys start digging in the kitchen trashcan, I keep its lid shut. When the boys start opening the lid and knocking over the kitchen trashcan creating a slice of doggie heaven, that’s when I run out of ideas. I need a trashcan in the kitchen, so I can’t hide it behind locked doors. I have no available counter space to elevate a trashcan, and anyway it’s too tall to use when it’s hoisted four feet off the ground.

The closest thing I’ve found to a solution is to place the trashcan on the basement stairs by the kitchen. That way it’s close enough to use without cursing my children’s names every time I walk to it, and it’s locked behind the baby gate and away from grabby little fingers. Of course, it’s not perfect. I have to drop trash a couple feet into the can, which results in a lower field goal percentage. That’s not much of a problem when junking junk mail, but can be a problem when pitching peach pits.

More perilously, the trashcan takes up half of our narrow, thin step. When the stairway was clear, I reconsidered my life insurance policy every time I stepped over the locked baby gate. Now I have less of a target to hit, and sometimes I miss. That’s what happened yesterday around noon. No, I didn’t miss the step and fall down the stairs; even in my sleep-deprived state, I’m smart to grab the railing as I step for balance. I just kicked the trashcan on my way over, sending it flying down the stairs and wishing I hadn’t peeled that orange for breakfast.

I’m not an overly clean person. I rarely scrub the kitchen floors for fear of disrupting the uniform layer of grime that tints my tiles brown and hides my negligence. I can’t tolerate a spilled trashcan, though, and went to work picking up the garbage one tossed Goldfish at a time.

The boys were napping, and I played a DVD for Abbie in the living room while I worked, which meant that the one place I could expect Abbie not to be was in the living room in front of the television. I should’ve responded when I heard a “thunk” from the kitchen, especially since I knew lunchtime was near and Abbie would be searching for snacks. I wanted to finish my filthy job, though, and only have to wash my winter-chapped hands once.

As I re-tossed the last mystery liquid-soaked piece of paper, Ellie called for me with that horrified/disgusted tone. I walked upstairs and found milk covering the floor. Without parental supervision, Abbie chose milk as her snack. When her sippy cup ran dry, she grabbed the gallon of milk to drink from it. Unfortunately, the milk jug doesn’t have EZ Grip Handles, and it fell on the floor, spilling its contents. She must’ve then sucked it dry when it was light enough to lift. While I give her credit for identifying the skim milk in the fridge, she grabbed the gallon jug that I just opened that morning and was almost full. Plus, that was the last of the skim milk.

Without crying, Ellie and I grabbed towels to soak up milk. I then grabbed the scrubbing supplies to clean the floor because few things are more disgusting in texture and odor than dried milk. Before doing any of that, I made sure the fridge lock was engaged. I need to accept that bit of childproofing.