We’re t-minus 6 weeks, folks. Which means that in the next couple days I need to install the car seat.
Now, I’m no Tim Allen, but I’m pretty handy with a toolbox. I can stop a toilet from running, a chair from squeaking, and a closet door from jumping the track. In my glory days, I even removed the Volvo’s ABS module, found a crack in the faulty circuit board, and got it re-soldered.
Yes, that Volvo.
But this car seat thing has me a little nervous. Maybe it’s because of this ruin-your-day article from Edmunds.com:
Amazingly, research from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) shows that as many as 80 percent of all car seats are improperly installed and used. Eighty percent. It’s a significant factor in why automobile accidents are the number-one killer of children under 14.
Translation: You’re going to kill your child.
Naturally, I shared this concern with my wife.
“You can take it to the fire station,” she said, “and they’ll do it for you.”
Or so she’d heard from the slew of pregnant ladies she works with.
So now I’ve got to choose between (a) betting our child’s life on my mechanical prowess, and (b) slinking into the fire station and admitting to a bunch of manly men that I’m too chickens–t to do this myself. Keep in mind that we live in West Hollywood, the Castro District of Los Angeles, so I imagine the inside of our fire station looks approximately like this:
I’ll let you know what happens.
Either Pappa’s gonna get some grease on his hands.
Or Pappa’s gonna learn to pole dance.