In September 1970, my parents bought their first house in Brooklyn just before I started kindergarten. I don’t believe we immediately moved – child-proofing was likely required, or perhaps even inhabitable – and renovations continued after the move-in: my siblings and I didn’t get our third-floor bedrooms until weeks/months later.
The task list for one weekend was replacing light switches and outlets, or at least one specific light switch in the front hallway leading to the kitchen. My dad removed the light switch and then moved on, leaving the two wires exposed – uncovered, unprotected. And, unbeknownst to others, electrically live.
Next, five-year old Scott wanders by and decides to conduct his first science experiment: connecting the two wires together completes a circuit and turns on the light! I fortunately only touched the insulation and not the copper, but my exclamation Look, I can make the light go on and off! triggered a quick response from my mom: grab the child and (justifiably) berate her husband for his stupidity.
A consistent theme through my mom’s adult life was her desire to defend and protect her children, which she applied to the many children she taught in her thirty-plus educational career. And woe to those whom got in her way: husbands, school administrators, whomever.