I used to know stuff, but now I know less and less with each passing day. Yesterday, I stared at the locked toilet seat at my friend's house and thought, okay, I may not have an engineering degree, but I can figure this out on my own. Many moons ago, I lived in a baby-proofed home. I dealt with latches. I put strollers together. But the locked toilet seat wasn't a latch situation. It was M.I.T. complicated. It had a thing you were supposed to push and slide and a lever and a secret government code to enter. No baby, let alone grown up, was getting that toilet seat upright without some serious mental effort and a Ph.D. I tried several approaches, all of which failed. I started to feel like that gal on the commercial, who's always, "Going and going and going..." Another minute and I would be going on the floor. I gave up. and opened the bathroom door. "Uh, I need a little help in here." Soon I had more help than I needed. Kelly, my writing partner, came in, followed by the babysitter and the babysitter's daughter, a recent law school grad. What followed was a ten-minute discussion about baby proofing and how did we survive without it. "Sorry to interrupt, but I'm going to have an accident," I said. Finally, they joined together and liberated the toilet seat for usage. "Okay, gang, thanks so much, I'll take it from here," I said, shoving them out the door. Next time, I'm bringing a port-o-potty.
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