Pop quiz! Can anyone identify the item in the picture above? Anybody? Anybody?

If you answered: "A dismantled childproof doorknob cover, as found inside a toddler's room," you are almost right.

It is also: "An accurate representation of her mother's sanity: broken, beaten, left for dead, Canvas No. 3."

The good people at Safety 1st claim the following about their product:

  1. Glows in the dark for nighttime use. (Not helpful, Safety 1st; this only helps her find the contraption better so she can sneak out and run to the bathroom to "wash her hands" at 3:47 freakin' a.m.)
  2. Access to door knob for easier grip. (Only if by "grip" you mean "destruction.")
  3. Sleek modern design blends in with home decor. (You clearly have not seen my home, wherein the words "sleek" and "modern" are drowned by "cluttered" and "oh-my-God-what-is-that-on-the-couch?"

Nowhere on the package does it claim that the doorknob cover will actually keep your child out of any particular room, so I guess we had this one coming. After previous attempts to make us go bat crazy, MJ escaped again Thursday morning. So, having tried all the usual methods to solve the Great Hide-and-Go-Freak of 2008 -- doors, gates, knob covers and childish pleading (ours, not hers) -- we turned to the health care system, which has always been so reliable in the past when explaining phenomena such as nighttime crying and green poop.

There had to be a medical reason for this nonsense. Off to the pediatrician! C'mon, baby, mama needs an ear infection!

Vitals: Temperature of 99.1 -- low-grade! There's a chance ...

I stood on the sidelines as he peeked inside Ear No. 1 for the gremlin that was causing her night prowling. I felt like I was watching the results portion of a reality show, anticipation coursing through my veins.

"That one looks good." Crap.

No. 2! Still time ... "This one looks good, too."

I just stood in silence, the silly little mother who can't keep her kid in her room at night, denied an antibiotic to cure bad behavior. Double crap.

Dr. Joe gave MJ a firm little lecture on why should she stay in her bed: it was the safest place to be; she needed her rest; Mommy and Daddy and all the people she loves will be right there when she gets up in the morning. I looked at my child in her blue-flowered shirt, her white capri pants and her sweet little sandals, that fly-away blond hair of hers sitting obediently on her head for once -- the picture of all that is angelic -- and considered whether his talk would work, whether her shy nod agreeing to stop the roaming would actually take.

Not a chance. Friday morning, 4 a.m., Daddy: "MJ, what are you doing in here?"

"I washing my hands!" she said.

Me too, said her mother. Me too.