Mommy-Proofed

Like the rest of the world, I keep all my cleaning paraphernalia under the sink. Windex, Mr. Clean and such, all of it protected by a little plastic baby latch. One of three things happened this morning while I was slicing up mango that resulted in Babe sitting on the floor with a bottle of Febreeze:

1. I didn't shut the cupboard the whole way the last time I was in there.
2. The latch is faulty, broken, or just plain cheap.
3. My child is a genius.

Of course I would like number three to be the answer, but the odds are in favor of one or two.

The answer is irrelevant. The point is, we almost had a poison-control emergency before my coffee was even done brewing. That's not good, not good at all. To avoid potential Scrubbing Bubbles guzzling in the future, I gutted ALL cupboards in the kitchen, leaving only a few sponges and a rice cooker. But where the eff am I supposed to put all this junk? Anything below shoulder level is (or will be) accessible to my kid, and everything above shoulder level is too flippin' high for me to reach. In one hand you hold safety, in the other, convenience. The safety hand holds headache, muscle strain, and an over-exerted neck (for me). The convenience hand holds induced vomiting (or milk?) and death.

The heavier hand is obvious, although I am more than slightly annoyed that I can't just Febreeze over the trash-can at will. I have to climb on top of the washer to access all that junk, and the first time I wanted a Magic Eraser, I banged my shins so hard I yelped.

Stupid baby latches and their false security. Bitches and biotches.

*This may be a silly thing to get all pissy about, but I tell you, cleaning supplies are supposed to go under the sink. That's where my Mum kept/keeps them, that's where I've always kept them, and it's just the RIGHT way. I feel like the balance of the universe has been thrown out of wack when I think about my Windex chillin' in the laundry room. It's so freakin' sad, and WRONG. It's just wrong.

Holy shit, am I totally Type A? No way. Irritable and exasperated, feeling hostility towards the laundry room and it's stupid high shelf... Not Type A at all.