Ladies and gentlemen, John and Charles (I’m not saying that John is a lady nor Charles is a gentleman), I present to you the knob of the door leading from my dining room to the garage. I have not seen this doorknob since I moved into Nogglestead, three years and four days ago:
Look how shiny it is, unlike the other doorknobs in the house that have been grabbed by a variety of sweaty father mitts and, more importantly, pasta-encased little child mitts.
That’s why it’s so clean and shiny, you see; for the last three years, it’s been protected by a child proofing mechanism, one of those knob covers that spins freely unless you squeeze the tabs on the sides to make contact with the underlying knob.
But my children are four and six now, and we spent all summer with sliding doors open, and they know to operate those and never showed a tendency to wander out on their own. Additionally, we removed the protection from the knob on the front door earlier this year, as it not only flummoxed our children but also our house guests. The children haven’t shown a tendency to go get the newspaper or go out.
So one aesthetically pleasing step later, and our door knobs are free. But it’s a bit sad to an old sentimentalist like me. Because I recognize that any de-childproofing steps measure a portion of the past, of my life with babies and toddlers, is moving into the past and lost but for my memories. Although the times haven’t always been joyful or easy, it’s only the joy I’ll remember and miss.
Not enough to keep a ceremonial childproofing door knob cover as a personal relic, though.
Also, I give the shine on that door knob eight days, maximum.