A House, Empty from the Waist Down

In the interest of childproofing, our house is denuded.  We've stripped it of the things that could kill--the toxic soaps and cleaners. We have banished toasters and sharp blades to high shelves, where they gather dust, forgotten. Tables are clear of books and magazines. God help you if you need a pen for anything. We can no longer have plants. As a guest steps into the place, their voices and mine have a disconcerting echo. It's as if we've forgotten to move in, they want to say.

Meanwhile, we are left with the stuff of daily life, which we can't hide:  the mail, our smartphones, pairs of shoes, paper towels and athletic bags with soccer equipment. Tess is relentless in finding these. When I spend any time with her, it requires a new dexterity. When I bring her in the shower, she attacks the floor, for a melted soap fragment that I'd missed; I have to pick her up and toe the soap into the drain. I have to think ahead, or it's in her mouth. Most of the time, as I realize it, it's already too late. I look, and she is grinning at me through soap-covered teeth. Or I find her on her frog potty, snacking on the roll of toilet paper I've forgotten to remove. I try and fail at this almost every day. Our girl is quick, I'll give her that.