“I know I don’t have to. But I want to.” I pause, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know anything about children. At all. But I can learn. And in the meantime, I can at least make the environment less hazardous.”
There’s a long silence.
Then Khalid says, “I can help. My sister has three little ones. I know which areas are most dangerous.”
“We do have foam padding in the supply tent,” Fatima adds. “For equipment protection, but it would work for sharp edges too.”
“Well, then,” Edmond says with a grin. “Looks like we’re babyproofing the Sahara.”
It turns out that babyproofing a desert camp is more complicated than I anticipated, but also oddly satisfying.
While Georgia and her team work at the excavation site—they’re making excellent progress in the new section, uncovering more ritual pottery—Khalid, Edmond, and I do our own work through the camp.
We start with the dining tent. Fatima’s cooking area has open flames, hot surfaces, and sharp utensils all within a toddler’s potential reach. We construct a low barrier using supply crates and rope, creating a visual boundary that Ella can’t easily cross.
“She’ll still try,” Khalid warns.
“But at least there’s a barrier to slow her down,” I counter. “Buy Georgia a few extra seconds to intervene.”
We pad the sharp corners of tables with foam, secure loose cables and ropes that could be tripping hazards, and reorganize the storage area so heavy items aren’t stacked where they could topple onto small explorers.
“This is actually kind of brilliant,” Edmond says, standing back to survey our work. “We should have done this from the start.”
By lunch, we’ve moved on to the general camp area. I find myself thinking about space from a toddler’s perspective. What would be interesting to grab? What could cause injury? Where are the dangers an adult wouldn’t even notice?
It’s like solving a puzzle. A weird, child-safety puzzle.
“What about her play area?” I ask Georgia when she comes up for lunch, Ella on her hip as usual. “Could we improve that?”
Georgia looks around at the changes we’ve made, her expression stunned. “You’ve been busy.”
“It’s a start. But I was thinking, her playpen is functional, but not very engaging. What if we created a more… stimulating environment?”
“A stimulating environment,” Georgia repeats slowly.
“For cognitive development,” I add, referencing what I was able to research online this morning. “Children this age are learning constantly. They need varied sensory input.”
Khalid snorts into his hand, absolutely trying not to laugh. I frown at him.
“That would be… really nice, actually,” Georgia says. “But Calvin, this is already way beyond?—”
“I’ll work on it this afternoon. I have the time.”
After lunch, while the team rests during the worst heat of the day, I find myself in the supply tent taking inventory of potential toy materials. This is ridiculous. I’m a real estate mogul. I’ve negotiated multimillion-dollar deals. I’ve managed complex acquisitions and corporate mergers. And now I’m trying to figure out how to make toys from odds and ends.
But I find myself… not hating it? Certainly, it’s the most useful I’ve felt since arriving at the camp.
I construct a simple stacking toy from smooth wooden blocks I cut from spare lumber, which I also sanded carefully so there are no splinters. Then a pull toy using a small crate with wheels and a rope handle. A “texture board” with different materials attached—smooth plastic, rough canvas, soft fabric, cool metal.
They’re crude. Definitely not something you’d find in a store. But they’re functional. Safe. And different from the toys Ella has been playing with for days. They should be interesting enough to keep her attention for longer than the toys she’s used to.
I set them up in her play area under the canopy, arranging them in a way that seems logical for exploration, pride filling my chest. Then I step back and realize I truly have no idea if a fourteen-month-old will find any of this interesting.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “only one way to find out.”
Later that afternoon, I volunteer to watch Ella while Georgia supervises the documentation of new findings.
“Are you sure?” Georgia asks, for what must be the fifth time.
