The inspector wears pajamas

The Jones family (all five of them -- the dogs are a package deal) spent last Friday night at our house as they made their way through Missouri and Illinois for the baby shower and wedding weekend extravaganza of '08.

There's nothing like having an 11-month-old in the house to let you know exactly what needs to be childproofed. Wine bottles stored in the cabinetry by the sink? Gone. Runner on the coffee table that has a wreath full o' candles resting on it? See ya. Sort-of clean kitchen floor? Spiff it up, already. And then there's the free-standing toilet tissue holder in the guest bathroom, as well as the basket full of toilet tissue, both of which are apparently too tempting for words.

The good news is that our baby crib is, in fact, safe. The night before the Jones family arrived, I rushed out to that blasted Babies 'R' Us store to buy a mattress and all the accouterments so Brennan could test the crib for us. Wait, wait. I mean rest in the crib. What? Do you think I'm the kind of person who would actually put my sweet nephew in harm's way if it meant I could guarantee that a crib is safe for my unborn child? Well, then, I'm sure you also think I'm the same kind of person who would attempt to jam her nephew's hands and feet through the rails to see if they could get stuck. (They don't, in case you were wondering.)

Now that I've safely ensured Brennan and the white menace will never grace our home again, might I invite you to click here for a few more shots of Inspector B at work?