I’m perhaps one of the least overly-anxious, neurotic parents I know — especially among my friends who are also first-time moms. Tonight, however, I found what inspires paranoia to rise for me: leaving a toddler in her own room, without the benefit of crib bars to keep her safe.

The big, heavy dresser? I’m just convinced that she will somehow (all less-than-20-pounds of her) bring it down on her head. The changing table just looks like a climbing wall. Never mind that my child isn’t *that* much of a climber. The room is fine. I know the room is fine. That doesn’t make it any less weird for her to be sans-crib.

For the love of God…she’s not even in a big, high bed. She’s on her crib mattress, on the floor. Why on the floor? Some friends picked up a couple of twin beds for their youngest kids, so passed their baby daughter’s crib/toddler bed on to me. After I took my crib apart, I tackled the job of putting the hand-me-down together. This is not exactly rocket science…but I’ve put enough furniture, cabinets, and other micellany together over the years that I know when four bolts are clearly not the correct ones for the crib (they were subbed for the original pieces), and five other pieces of hardware are missing. After a (fruitless) trip to Home Depot in search of replacement cam locks, I let it go. Maya’s mattress is on the floor…and I may end up getting her a full bed before long after all.

Anyway, back to paranoia. How much could happen?

I hear crying upstairs, and it’s oddly reassuring.

Oops…there’s a crash. Um…bye.

Update: All is well in toddler-land. She’s just banging on the door. Poor kid — wonder where she’ll end up sleeping?

Update 2:There’s nothing sweeter (okay, and funnier) than poking your nose in the door to find that your kid is sleeping with her cheek planted on the carpet…while her hips and legs are still on the mattress. Oh, and her not waking up during the nose-poking is pretty cool too. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Maya has learned the sign for “piano” from watching Baby Wordsworth entirely too many times. She asks to sit on the bench, then acts as if she knows *exactly* what she’s doing up there.

We’ll start some real lessons someday. Anyone know how old a child should be before formal music lessons begin?

Maya holds her snack baggie of natural cheetohs (if you haven’t tried them, they’re really, reallllllly good), and wanders around the house. The dogs are outside, so all is well. Katie paws at the door, asking to come in.

Crates! I yell … there’s no way Maya gets to finish her snack if the dogs are loose in the house.

A few minutes later, Maya heads straight to the dog crates, snack in hand.

Maya, that baggie is your snack. You may eat it, or you may feed it to the dogs, but that’s all you’re getting this morning.

Maya nods, and eats another cheetoh. A moment later, I glance over to see the empty snack bag on the floor.

Fish? Fish? Maya wants another snack.

I consider it for a few seconds, then realize that I just CANNOT give her more, even if she is hungry. We had a deal, and she made a choice. Even if it really pisses her off, she has to live with the consequence of her choice. She’s the one crying, but I feel like such a tyrant!

Sorry, Boo. You decided to share your snack with Katie and Clay. That’s all you get until lunchtime.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! MAAAAMAAAA!

SIGH.