Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Baby Swings and Other Things...

There is one piece of baby equipment that is my saving grace.  And that is the baby swing.  With my first, it was a guaranteed way to get him to sleep.  In fact, I rarely used it because it was coma inducing for him and I felt guilty!  With my second, it actually gives me peace because she always has to be moving.  She does not take a paci for comfort, but instead requires almost constant movement.  And since I cannot be carrying her every moment of the day and effectively chase down my Tasmanian devil of a toddler, the swing is by far my most prized possession.  I'll give you 10 seconds to guess where this story is headed...
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Ready?
Yes, this is about the untimely demise of my swing.  Now a normal person's swing would just stop functioning or perhaps encounter a jam of some sort.  Unlucky me got to experience the craziest, most unlikely way for a baby swing to die.  It began to melt and nearly caught on fire.

Out of the blue, my house started to smell like burning plastic.  Knowing that I'm the world's darkest haired blond, I checked the dishwasher, the stove and other random appliances to make sure that I didn't leave something plastic on a hot surface to melt.  Not that I've ever done that before or anything... *cough*  No, there was nothing plastic on the stove burners, I didn't leave my flat iron turned on and the dishwasher wasn't brutally murdering yet another spatula.  I sniffed and sniffed, effectively giving myself a headache and making me nauseous, until I landed on the culprit.  The swing reeked of melting plastic.  I immediately took the batteries out and felt around for any hot spots.  There were none on the outside, but the ventilation hole to the inner motor chamber was releasing hot air.  My swing commit suicide.  /sadface

Maybe I shouldn't have climbed in it to see if it was really as comfortable as the babies made it look.  Just keeeeding.

All day today my poor little girl has required me to hold her, sway and comfort feed her nonstop.  My arms are sore.  I hope I get some kick a* guns out of this!

[z]

 “The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.”- W.R. Wallace

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