Enemy, thy name is Doorknob.

I realize that oh but a few weeks ago I was espousing the virtues and wonders of the doorknob. But a few days ago, it all changed...

I honestly don't know how to feel about this. Betrayed, bewildered? The very object I had come to count on is now laughing in my face. At this point my only saving grace is that he can't quite do it with shoes off, so we've instituted a strict barefoot policy...

But let's face it, how long will it take him to grow that extra half inch, a week maybe? It's a wonder that something that was once so implausible, that he could possibly reach the door knob before we moved out of the apartment, is now a reality.

That's the thing about raising a baby. Yesterday's saving grace is tomorrow's death trap. One day he's happily sitting in a bouncing chair and the next day he's lying there with the thing tipped over, clawing his way out like he's in a coyote trap. Which leads me all to a bigger problem - how can I possibly justify buying gates when I'll probably be moving in the next month? That is why I am grateful that the doorknob repair guy has yet to show up ("Mañana, mañana!"). And better yet, two more doorknobs have broken since the last incident, which means that you have to turn the knobs up instead of down. So tonight we'll be swapping our knobs around, making sure that the real death traps are protected (i.e., the kitchen, my bedroom, the bathroom, and of course, Deviant Dad's Office of Death).

In the meantime, we're putting the Captain on a strict diet of cigarettes and coffee to stave off anymore growth.