"I Drank the Windex" -- And Other Sentences I Wish I Could Un-Hear

Ok, so it wasn't actually Windex. It was a sip or two of children's bubble-making liquid (what the hell do you call that stuff, anyway?) that just smelled like Windex, which Pre-Schooler N and his trusty younger sidekick First-Cousin A somehow got into. Still, it did freak me out a bit.

I mean, I've smelled some funky toddler and kid breath over the last three years (hot tip of the day: never drink warm milk if you're lookin' to get lucky), but this was certainly the most alarming. Nothing like taking a whiff and instantly thinking I could give my windows that streak-free shine they deserve with a few squeezes of my child's belly and some well aimed effluvium.

But once I thought about it rationally, I realized it would probably not be Procter and Gamble's best interests to distribute a child's play product that was actually made of a poisonous substance.

Right?

There would be less worry if this had been something I had purchased myself, but the beverage in question came courtesy of an article found in the playroom at the home of Pre-Schooler N's grandparents. This is the house that all of us in the second generation cheerfully refer to as the Death Trap.

Designed and built in the 1960s, this massive structure is quite a testimony to the architecture of the ugliest decade imaginable (followed closely of course by its successor the 70s). It's all chunky shapes and angles, clad in barn board and possessed of the most challenging design elements I have ever seen presented to its determined owners when they purchased it in the late nineties.

(Not the actual house. Or family. I have that apron though)

God it was hideous. The kitchen was that special snot-green Formica so beloved by my parents' generation, while the stairs and mezzanine featured a complete lack of railings and other elements designed to keep klutzes like myself from toppling into blessed eternity. It is to Granny and Grandad's absolute credit as both preservationists and visionaries that the house became the magnificent specimen it is today: a blend of modernity and period elements that is harmonious within both its own walls and the landscape on which it rests.

But it's still a freakin' death trap.

(Also not the actual house. Or shower curtain.)

I first became aware of this lurking danger during then-Toddler N's inaugural Christmas with Professor D's family. At that point we were still just fostering the wee one, so the consequences of what occurred were doubly concerning. The manse really is huge, so it needs a serious heating system to keep it toasty during the Quebec winter months (there are about ten of them every year). Unfortunately, the radiators for said system are at least six feet in length, crafted from heat-conductive steel grills and set flush into the floor boards. This of course means that anyone accidentally stepping on these hot irons of torture in socked feet are in for, at the very least, a very sharp burn. God forbid your feet are bare.

Toddler N had recently learned to walk, and was barreling around his soon-to-be-grandparents' house with terrifying abandon, while his middle-aged soon-to-be-parents trailed clumsily after him. We were in a permanent state of exhaustion back then, having had to hit the ground running with an active toddler at an age that usually dictates buying flashy cars and dating people half your age in order to escape the reality of encroaching decay and doom.

So it's of no surprise that the boy ended up falling over one of the floor vents, badly burning his hand and resulting in several nights of painful wailing and angry tears. Oh, and the kid was pissed off too. He learned, of course, and now knows to keep his distance from these ancient horrors. But today's imbibing of a noxious substance certainly fit in with the reality that not every space we encounter is going to be safe for our kid.

And that's how it should be, I suppose. Despite my continued state of appalled bemusement regarding the seemingly endless stretches of red-hot floor vents, I admire the fact that Professor D's parents are adamant their home be a space that reflects their own lifestyle and design aesthetic. Sure, I'm terrified that the now-Preschooler N will destroy one of their priceless pieces of art, littered casually around the house, but I figure if they're not going to sweat it, then neither am I. They raised a bunch of kids, and take pretty much everything in unruffled stride.

So I resolve to as well. I tasted the bubble-liquid stuff and it was just awful... bitter and burning. Which tells me that Pre-Schooler N and First-Cousin A probably had only the tiniest sip. At four hours and counting, I still haven't lost my eyesight or puked out significant lengths of my lower intestine, so it's assuredly fine.

Kind of a shame about that child-powered window washer though. I mean, the little darlings always have something disgusting dripping from every damn orifice. It'd be nice to put some of it use once in awhile....