I remember how innocent I was, long before I was a parent. Do you remember that time? When you were young, perhaps it was the 80s, or the early 90s. You imagined bringing a baby into your home one day, certainly, it was far off in the future but the image was clear, if a bit soft-focused around the edges: all was fuzzy, wuzzy, warm, soft, and gentle. If you imagined your home with a kitchen, in fact, the knives were all tucked safely away in a hand-oiled maple block somewhere, way, way back on the counter.

[Big sound of brakes squeaking, wheels skidding, cars smashing into walls, screams...]

And then, I became a parent in the new millennium. And my world was filled with the most fearsome, warlike cutting implements. Industrial-strength scissors that came apart at the hinge so you could sharpen them daily. Hunting knives with a whetting stone, glistening next to the sink (where I keep my gentle organic hand soap). A typical day in my first child's infancy might find my knuckles raw, my fingers calloused, battle wounds all over my fingers.

I'd been faced with my children's toy packaging.