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Yesterday, Nate and I spent much of our visit with my dad and Gale scooping up knick-knacks, moving sharp things, feverishly shutting doors, and road-blocking cactusesóall this while half-listening to conversations.

It reminded me of the Christmas happy hour Nate and I had right before Theo was born. Linnea and Mike brought Jackson and we were in no way baby-proofed (which is a stupid term, by the by. Itís toddler-proofing. What the heck do you need to proof for a teeny person who canít even sit up? Nada). Poor Linnea, when she wasnít fishing Jackson out of the fireplace, she was distracting him from the non-door to the cellar, or chasing him up our railing-free stairs.

At least my dad has a ceiling fan. Once Theo spotted it, there were large chunks of time (read: 3-minute intervals) where no toddler-chasing occurred. Yay ceiling fan! Suddenly itís very clear to me why every suburban home has one of these magical baby hypnotizers.
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