Today I got together with some pals for our annual cookie exchange. (Number of cookies I ate while there: 0, and let me tell you I felt mighty impressed with my feat of self-discipline. Number of cookies I have eaten since they entered my house: 1047, which is a neat trick given that I only brought home 60. So much for self-discipline.) Our hostess lives in a little town about half an hour away, and as I was driving home I was chatting with my friend from around the corner about carseats.
Earlier this week I pulled the infant carseat out of our little detached uninsulated garage and was so horrified by its accretion of filth and insect egg sacs that I briefly considered putting it on the curb. I did not, because of environmental guilt plus deep-seated frugal instincts. Instead I put it in the basement sink. I worked off its liner and chucked it into the washer with hot water and an extra rinse cycle, adding some dishwasher detergent for the phosphates. (It sat in the garage during the 2006 house-painting, and I was worried about lead dust.) Then I scrubbed the seat and its base for half an hour with hot water and detergent and my husband's toothbrush. (I should really stop calling it my husband's toothbrush here because he is never going to put that thing in his mouth again, any more than he would clean his teeth with the toilet brush.)
But I wasn't happy with the cleaning job, because there were some crevices I couldn't quite plumb with the toothbrush and the thought of insect egg sacs lurking inside them gave me the heebie-jeebies.
"Oh, yes," my friend said helpfully. "They'll probably hatch all at once. While you're driving on a remote road like this one. And it would only take one spider bite to make the baby's throat close." She sounded so earnest that it took me a minute to realize she was yanking my chain
I said, "Noooooooooooo, that is not allowed. You're supposed to help me with the crazy, not feed the crazy. Do you know what my husband will say to you if he finds out you've been feeding the crazy? He will tell you there is quite enough crazy in his house right now thankyouverymuch."
Maybe that should have been my cue to talk about something different, like the madness of Rod Blagojevich or favorite gift wrap motifs. Instead I said, "The idea is just bothering me. I can't think of a way to destroy the egg sacs without running the risk of weakening the carseat. Would it be bad for me to soak the whole thing in bleachy water? Or put it in the oven on low?"
She said carefully, "I wouldn't put it in the oven. You might set your house on fire trying to save the baby from hypothetical insects." I started to laugh so hard I could scarcely drive, imagining the carseat melting like a Dali clock while I was off scrubbing something else. It seemed like such a good idea until I said it aloud. She went on: "How would you explain that to the firefighters? They would take you straight to the hospital. To the third floor. Which is not labor and delivery."
I don't know how funny the retelling will be on your screen, but I can't remember the last time I laughed that hard. I had tears streaming down my face, imagining the firefighters' bafflement as they confronted the deformed carseat carcass. In fact, just now I was typing this up, remembering and laughing (and still thinking, honestly, that it could work to put the carseat in the oven), when my oldest said, "Are you okay? Are you laughing? or crying? or having an asthma attack?" [I don't have asthma.]
I explained the baked carseat idea. He said, "I'm going to keep a ten-foot distance from you until this nesting thing passes." Of course, he had just taken this picture of me standing on the dining room table, obsessively cleaning the ceiling fan blades, so who can blame him?
After a long stretch with her head down, baby turned back to transverse last night. I am not terribly worried but I am hoping she gets the message: fuzzy end goes down, sweetie. Sideways is no good.
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