So, anyway, I'd left my foundling child Throbert Jr. (or Throbertina Jr.) chained to the radiator and watching Zoboomafoo on PBS while I went to the market for ground beef. As I was standing at the meat display, I began to wonder whether I should try to sneak some vegetables into the baby's diet, so I went off to find a jar of capers to make steak tartare. Then I remembered reading one time, in a Cheerios ad, that finger foods (such as Cheerios) help infants improve their eye-hand coordination.

"But," I thought, "Throbert Jr.'s (or Throbertina Jr.'s) lethal, velociraptor-like talons might have trouble managing those dry little loops of cereal -- kind of like me trying to pick up ball bearings with chopsticks." Chuckling at that memory, I threw a couple trays of chicken hearts into the shopping basket instead, since they were on special. I also bought some cheese pierogies and broccoli for myself.

When I got home, I was surprised because my dog Poochy didn't run to meet me at the door like he always does.

"Poochy! Here, boy," I called out, and as soon as I saw the gnawed remains of the Kryptonite bicycle lock by the radiator and Throbert Jr. (or Throbertina Jr.) nowhere in sight, I instinctively reached for the broom. It only took a few seconds to find both baby and terrier, behind the black vinyl loveseat in the living room.

"Hiss," said Throbert Jr. (or Throbertina Jr.), and as he (or she) opened his (or her) mouth, I could see Poochy's sad brown eyes looking at me as though to say Why, master, why?

"Bad mutant baby! Bad, bad, bad," I said in my firmest voice. "You spit that out this instant." My first thought was to try poking the child's soft spot a few times with the end of the broom handle (I'd seen in a TV documentary once that you can make a shark open its mouth by jabbing it in the gills, which are supposedly very sensitive), but apparently his (or her) cranial bones had already fused solid, because even when I started putting some muscle into my swings, it had no effect.

Finally, though, I managed to wedge the broom handle into the baby's jaws and sort of pry Poochy out -- I guess Throbert Jr. (or Throbertina Jr.) had merely been tasting him (I also saw in a TV documentary, though not the same one, that infants have a natural urge to taste objects in their environment), because, thank God, Poochy was unharmed and only in need of a bath. The sole casualty was, as I mentioned earlier, the broomstick -- but even that turned out okay because I mixed some syrup of ipecac in with the chicken hearts and the entire thing came up fifteen minutes later.

You know, being a parent is a challenge sometimes, but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world!

posted by Throbert | 5/30/2002 08:03:00 PM |

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