Rock, what, scissors? (Letter #010)

Photo of Papa Zesser pointing out the dangers in an empty playground to his thoroughly disinterested daughter.

Papa Zesser gets another scare

My darling Baobao,

In my last letter to you, I talked about how you had surprised me with your new physical abilities, and scared me with the results of them. I finished that letter by saying, “I guess it’s only going to get harder,” and I was right!

As you know, in order to give you exercise and to encourage you to get crawling (not to mention: to give me some time to type), I will often let you play on the floor of my office (which you probably remember — *sob!* — as your bedroom, ’cause that’s what it will soon become. The sacrifices parents make for their children … I digress) while I work.

Anyway, recently I found a notepad that I must have accidentally brought home from work about four years ago (the top four sheets April 25, 2016). One day last week while you were sitting on my lap you reached for it and quickly decided it was your new favourite toy. Well, that seemed fine to me, so I made a point of including it among your toys when I gave you tummy time in my office.

Papa Zesser points to all the bad things that can happen in an empty playground while holding his utterly disinterested daughter.
Papa Zesser points to all the bad things that can happen in an empty playground while holding his utterly disinterested daughter.

Well, this past Saturday or Sunday (or Monday. Or Friday. When you’re living life in a lock-down, the days do tend to blur into one another), you’d been playing behind me for a while, while, as is my habit, I turned to spot-check on you every two or three minutes (less, if you get too quiet).

Well, after a while I turned to see a very happy baby! A happy baby merrily chowing down on what had been the top sheet of paper of that pad.

Once again, your daddy felt a momentary shock of, well, not quite terror but considerable concern. I leapt from my chair and got down on the floor so that I could get that damned wad of wood pulp out of your little mouth and away from your hands.

A quick examination of your mouth showed me you didn’t seem to have any more deeper inside, but an even more rapid check of the paper showed that you had swallowed a not inconsiderable portion of it.

Photo of work sheet partially eaten by baby.
Proof of the crime!

Naturally, I leapt again, this time for the computer and DuckDuckGo, which very soon told me that a little paper wasn’t going to hurt you, not unless you choked on it.

But even so, my relief was tempered by the realization that I hadn’t thought through all possible dangers present on the floor of my office.

And of course (as I noted previously), the way you’re developing, the dangers are only going to multiply.

I’m going to do my best to keep you safe, my darling girl, but there is a definite part of me that looks forward to the day I can sit back, confident that you won’t do anything reckless. Let’s see — *counts on fingers, then toes, then fingers again* — if my youth was anything to go by, I figure I’ll be able to stop worrying in maybe 35 years.

Wish me luck!

Much love,

Papa Zesser

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