I'm approaching the 7th anniversary of my oldest daughter's birth, which means that I have been parenting for almost 50 dog years. Arf, arf.

So. In these 50 dog years, you would think that I have mastered some of the fundamentals. In fact, given that all three of my children display a remarkable lack of restraint, you would think that I would be a pro at safeguarding things. And I am. Medicines are locked up. Cleaners are kept well out of reach. This could explain why cleaning is such a pain in the butt for me. Okay, that's the fault of My Lazy, but I do love to make excuses.

No, the problem around here is food. My kids love to play with food.

Now, we're not talking little happy splashing at the dinner table. We're not talking about rearranging the contents of their plate to make it appear as though they have taken a bite of vegetables. Actually, dinner seems to be more of a spiritual pursuit for my kids. They stare at their plates, willing the food to spontaneously disappear. For all I can tell, they've eaten about three bites between them in about a month. Perhaps merely resting their eyes on the food is all it takes for them to fuel up. That is a rant for another day.

Since my three-year-old has mastered opening the fridge and pantry, there is no peace. Like my older two, she is compelled to explore everything in a tactile way. Why, just this week I left her in the kitchen (my first mistake) with a stick of butter on the counter from the toast we made at breakfast (my second mistake) to switch the laundry. When I returned, she was in the living room, peacefully watching television. Or so I thought...

"Whee! Whoopie! Wheeeee!" shouted my daughter.

I rounded the corner to find my kid, buck nekkid, skidding around on the pergo on her greased belly. She had butter in her ears. Butter in her hair. Butter, butter everywhere.

I slipped and slid my way over to her and tried to pick her up to throw her in the bath. I was unable to keep my traction, and ended up half growling, half giggling as I tried to get a grip. She began to squirm away from me as fast as she could, and I lurched after her on the slick floor. It was like a greased pig contest. And I was losing.

Finally, I grabbed a towel and wrapped the Junior Dairy Queen up, got to the shower and we both jumped in. We used the entire tank of hot water trying to get all the oil off. Immediately after the shower, she fell asleep, leaving me with the challenge of getting the butter slick off my living room floor.

Sadly, all three of my children loved to get into the pantry and make merry. I'm beginning to think I should either stop shopping for food entirely, or perhaps I should just open all bags and boxes and dump them on the floor while shouting "Whee! Whee!"

Aside from installing a deadbolt on the pantry, all attempts to childproof it have been a joke. All scolding, punishing, deranged ranting - no effect. The fridge, too. I've soaked up gallons of milk. Cleaned up 10 pounds of flour that have been pulled off a high shelf, landed on the head of the pantry raider and burst open. Yeah. My kitchen was all breaded and ready for the fryer that day.

The older two did grow out of it, but my youngest is entralled by the idea of riverdancing in a cloud of powdered sugar. I'm aware that the answer here is to never let her out of my sight. I guess that's do-able. But The Lazy thinks we should install some sort of electrical shock system on the fridge and pantry.

Hey! That might be good for my weight loss quest as well.