Perhaps this is why L was happier than I’ve ever seen her Wednesday night when a bunch of red-tailed hawks went wind-surfing on the currents gusting in our neighborhood after a storm.

There had to be a dozen birds in all, circling and floating like kites. Some of them dipped so low you could make out individual feathers, and their yellowish-orange beaks.

L spotted the first hawk. Under my watchful gaze, she was standing on the living room couch and looking out the back window (this has become a favorite pastime). Immediately, she began squealing with delight, attempting to imitate my usual bird call of, “Tweet, tweet, tweet.” Judging by her excitement, I knew she’d found a bird. I had no idea how big of a bird it would be (she usually sees sparrows and crows/ravens).

When I looked up to confirm her find, I spotted a few other hawks circling more toward the front of the house. The two of us dashed to the front porch; there, we saw at least seven big birds, swooping and gliding and just generally being beautiful.

From her perch in my arms, L watched the creatures in amazement, swiveling her head from one bird to another, back and forth, for minutes at a time. Occasionally, she squealed and bounced up and down in my arms. When the spirit moved her, she’d wave at the birds and say, “Hi,” or try to say the word “bird” (which usually just comes out as “Buh”).

The bird-watching continued for nearly 20 minutes in all; the two of us speeding from front door to back door as the birds flowed with the gusts.

Throughout the escapade, L didn’t lose interest once. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to hyperventilate. I don’t remember ever seeing her as giddy or as happy. Considering Wednesday was her 11-month birthday, I’d say it was a great way to celebrate being alive.

My symptoms arrived Wednesday evening, following a long run at the gym. Her symptoms came on in full effect this afternoon, complete with sniffling, sneezing and a ton of snot.

At times, the poor child sounded like a purring cat when she breathed.

And the whole sleeping thing? Well, let’s just say she’s been in her crib for about three hours as I write this, and she’s awakened five times over that span (we were preparing for a long night).

Despite her first official illness, our little baby was her usually chipper self for most of the day. She army-crawled after the cordless phone. She giggled at me when I sang to her during mealtimes. She also tossed her usual squeals and grunts in the direction of the cat; no matter what’s going in L’s life, little Coomer always seems to elicit a smile.

Still, I couldn’t help but spend most of the evening feeling awful. I had the cold first; now L has it. The evidence is almost irrefutable: I made my baby sick.

The rational part of my brain understands that the more frequently she gets sick in these early stages, the better her immune system will be when she heads off to pre-school or kindergarten (or music class) and interacts with other kids (and their germs).

For my heart, however, this knowledge doesn’t make the reality any easier at all.

Here I sit, congested as all hell and blowing my nose like a banshee, yet all I can think about is my little girl tossing and turning in the next room. If there were a way to take on her germs, snot and congestion so she wouldn’t have to suffer, I’d do it without hesitation. I’m guessing this feeling is what parenthood is about.

As L begins to crawl all over the place, too, I couldn’t agree with this assessment more.

L’s method of transportation is more a shimmy than a crawl at this point, but she’s close enough to get herself into trouble.

Yesterday, for instance, she wriggled like a Pinniped over to the bottom draw of her dresser, opened the draw and somehow managed to pull out every single one of the sheets inside. This morning, with cat sleeping on the floor across the room, she staggered over to him and proceeded to tug on his ears until he woke up, hissed at her and ran away.

For a neurotic dad like me, these new skills likely will trigger an extended panic attack of epic proportions.

The electrical outlets! The door stoppers! The bathroom cabinets! There’s so much for the baby to get herself into, simply thinking about all of the stuff we have to baby-proof makes my head spin.

And so, dear readers, I turn to you. When your respective “raccoons” started raccooning around, what were your strategies for making the house a safer place? Where did you start? What precautions did you find were overrated/overhyped? Perhaps most important, which precautions did you find were unnecessary?

Eager to hear your replies.

Before the baby, “Cooms” was king of the castle, the object of all the affection we could muster on any given day. He had free reign of the house. He slept with us. He watched TV with us. We talked to him as if he were our child.

Now, of course, things are remarkably different.

For starters, we’ve shrunken his world, closing off the nursery and our bedroom (the two rooms in which the baby spends most of her time) to minimize L’s exposure to cat dander. Because he can no longer sleep with us, he meows all night long, necessitating bedtime seclusion in the (climate-controlled) garage, which we can cordon off from the rest of the house with a pet door.

We’ve done our best to make life out there humane, tricking out L’s first bassinette with one of Coomer’s favorite blankets and providing an ample supply of food and water (as well as a clean litter box).

Other changes in the home environment relate to our supply of available attention and affection; put simply, the baby takes up most of it.

Between feeding L, changing L, playing with her and related day-to-day chores (laundry, prepping dinners, etc.), the two of us certainly have our hands full. The result is that Coomer is left to spend much more of every day entertaining himself.

He’s gotten pretty good at it. His take of hummingbirds and voles has increased exponentially since L has arrived, and he chases more spiders now than he has since his days as a kitten.

To keep the cat happy, we strive to make him feel wanted. Every morning includes at least 15 minutes of Coomer-time, most often a love-fest on the couch. At night, once the baby goes to bed, we slot another session—usually one that involves string, crumpled paper, or something else he can chase.

As I type this, the little guy is curled in a cinnamon roll on the couch in my office: a room that previously was off-limits but in recent months has been demilitarized as part of this campaign.

Despite these efforts, when Powergirl and I think about how life has changed for Coomer, we feel guilty. We wonder: Does he actually like our home less these days? Is he is sophisticated enough to identify L as the source of the change? If the answer to both of these questions is yes, do we need to worry about the cat suffocating our baby girl to get rid of her once and for all?

At the end of the day, I’m not sure it’s tenable to raise a newborn and treat pets the same way you always have. I keep telling myself our cat is lucky because we still feed him, love him and give him shelter every night. Hopefully, at least until L gets a little older, these will be enough.