Here's a sample:
"When Danny began to walk, life became a never-ending series of getting-Danny-out-of-whatever-he-was-into. You think I’m exaggerating, I know. Everyone always does. Well, I’m not.
To illustrate, here’s an example: no matter when or where we were, there was always—ALWAYS—a running turn-taking happening between my brothers and I. Watching TV? Danny would sneak into the kitchen and be getting into some kind of trouble, so I would get up and go into the kitchen, stop the mischief, clean up the mess and bring him back to the living room. Whereupon he would immediately run back into the kitchen and return to said mischief. Then it was Sam’s turn. Into the kitchen, stop the mischief, clean up the mess, bring him to the living room. As soon as he sat down, we’d look up and Danny was gone again. Andy’s turn. Into the kitchen, stop the mischief, clean up the mess and bring him back. Back to my turn. Rinse and repeat. Again and again. All day, every day.
“Why didn’t you just Danny-proof the whole house” you ask? Believe me, we tried.
Over the years, Dad put locks on everything. Doors, cabinets, windows. And as Danny grew taller, the locks moved up higher and higher. The inside of our front door looked like we were in a witness protection program. Except we weren’t necessarily trying to keep anyone out. We were just trying to keep Danny in.
The kid never stopped. Ever. Once he got an idea in his head, it was like OCD on crack. He was utterly and thoroughly obsessed.
Still think I’m kidding? Well then, let’s talk about the light switch years. Yes, I said years. You see, about the time Danny could reach the light switches in our 1908 farmhouse on the southeast side of Portland, he developed a fixation with turning them on and off. In retrospect, it must have been some kind of power/control issue. At the time, we didn’t care what the underlying motivation was—all we knew was that Danny would NOT STOP turning the lights on and off. All day long he flipped the light switches on and off. On and off. And even worse, he did it all evening too.
Standing on the first few stairs just inside the entry of our house, he could reach the switches that controlled the entire front of the house. The front porch, the upstairs hall, the entryway… all at his stubby little fingertips. It was like a lunatic’s light show every night. People in the neighborhood thought our house was haunted. The kids at school asked if we had actually seen the ghosts that lived with us. Yes. Yes, we had. He was chunky, about three feet tall with huge brown eyes and sandy brown hair that tended to stick out every which way and a dimple high up on his right cheek.
Dan’s fixation with light switches didn’t stop at our house. Everywhere he could find a switch, he was there. He was like a light switch Sherlock Holmes—no switch escaped his notice. In his “early intervention” class at the Kelly Center where he attended a special preschool from about age 3-5, the staff came up with a creative idea to stop the constant lighting disruptions. Some unfortunate janitor was tasked with making wooden boxes only open at the top and retrofitting them on all of Danny’s classroom light switches. Ah, but he was too clever to be stopped by a mere box. All he needed was a chair to stand on and his little hand fit down inside just fine.
My mom’s dad, Papa Stucki, clever Swiss mind that he has, came up with a crafty idea. He carefully drilled holes in plastic peanut can lids and placed them over the light switches, fastening them in place using the little screws that held the cover plates in place. It actually worked really well, but as you can imagine Grandma Stucki hated having these Jerry-rigged plastic lids screwed over all her light switches. Not exactly the stuff you’d see in Good Housekeeping."
To illustrate, here’s an example: no matter when or where we were, there was always—ALWAYS—a running turn-taking happening between my brothers and I. Watching TV? Danny would sneak into the kitchen and be getting into some kind of trouble, so I would get up and go into the kitchen, stop the mischief, clean up the mess and bring him back to the living room. Whereupon he would immediately run back into the kitchen and return to said mischief. Then it was Sam’s turn. Into the kitchen, stop the mischief, clean up the mess, bring him to the living room. As soon as he sat down, we’d look up and Danny was gone again. Andy’s turn. Into the kitchen, stop the mischief, clean up the mess and bring him back. Back to my turn. Rinse and repeat. Again and again. All day, every day.
“Why didn’t you just Danny-proof the whole house” you ask? Believe me, we tried.
Over the years, Dad put locks on everything. Doors, cabinets, windows. And as Danny grew taller, the locks moved up higher and higher. The inside of our front door looked like we were in a witness protection program. Except we weren’t necessarily trying to keep anyone out. We were just trying to keep Danny in.
The kid never stopped. Ever. Once he got an idea in his head, it was like OCD on crack. He was utterly and thoroughly obsessed.
Still think I’m kidding? Well then, let’s talk about the light switch years. Yes, I said years. You see, about the time Danny could reach the light switches in our 1908 farmhouse on the southeast side of Portland, he developed a fixation with turning them on and off. In retrospect, it must have been some kind of power/control issue. At the time, we didn’t care what the underlying motivation was—all we knew was that Danny would NOT STOP turning the lights on and off. All day long he flipped the light switches on and off. On and off. And even worse, he did it all evening too.
Standing on the first few stairs just inside the entry of our house, he could reach the switches that controlled the entire front of the house. The front porch, the upstairs hall, the entryway… all at his stubby little fingertips. It was like a lunatic’s light show every night. People in the neighborhood thought our house was haunted. The kids at school asked if we had actually seen the ghosts that lived with us. Yes. Yes, we had. He was chunky, about three feet tall with huge brown eyes and sandy brown hair that tended to stick out every which way and a dimple high up on his right cheek.
Dan’s fixation with light switches didn’t stop at our house. Everywhere he could find a switch, he was there. He was like a light switch Sherlock Holmes—no switch escaped his notice. In his “early intervention” class at the Kelly Center where he attended a special preschool from about age 3-5, the staff came up with a creative idea to stop the constant lighting disruptions. Some unfortunate janitor was tasked with making wooden boxes only open at the top and retrofitting them on all of Danny’s classroom light switches. Ah, but he was too clever to be stopped by a mere box. All he needed was a chair to stand on and his little hand fit down inside just fine.
My mom’s dad, Papa Stucki, clever Swiss mind that he has, came up with a crafty idea. He carefully drilled holes in plastic peanut can lids and placed them over the light switches, fastening them in place using the little screws that held the cover plates in place. It actually worked really well, but as you can imagine Grandma Stucki hated having these Jerry-rigged plastic lids screwed over all her light switches. Not exactly the stuff you’d see in Good Housekeeping."