When Ryan and I bought our house five years ago we were young, and free, and not thinking about children. We fell in love with the house for it's new kitchen, mature trees, central location, and big porch. We loved it so much we were willing to overlook everything that made it hazardous for children. Very, very hazardous for children. The pond. The sharp corners. The old heating registers that aren't quite attached to the wall. Oh, and, of course, the death stairs.
That's right, for the past five years we have lived with a seven foot drop immediately off the kitchen. For the past five years every time we have had a child, or a drunk person, visiting we have warned them about the drop off, sucked air through our teeth and grabbed them when they got near the drop off, and prayed no one would fall off the drop off and sue us.
We always talked about getting a railing put there, but just never did it. Then Meg was born, and we knew time was ticking down. When she started crawling, time was up.
I would love to say I did it myself, but I didn't. I did write the check myself though, so I think that counts for something.
All night I have been in the back hall, marveling at the new railing. I would touch it, but Joe (who is now right up there with Rick, and Frank in my book) said not to wiggle it for 48 hours to let the glue around the bolts set. I so want to wiggle it, but I want it too be sturdy more. After all, I have a baby to protect.
Now, I guess we just have to do something about the pond.