Word: crib
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CHILDREN'S FURNITURE. More than 200 crib strangulations are reported each year, and near misses are common. An infant can slip his body but not his head between the slats of most cribs. No laws regulate the design of cribs or other infant furniture, and the industry has no safety standards...
...Rats, for example, takes us to an oversized nursery in a Harlem tenement. Jebbie, "a fat Harlem rat," sits counting his money amidst a six-foot-high crib and ten-foot baby chair. It is quite possible that a metaphor of a man as a rat in the nursery of the universe was implied, but Horovitz did not choose to develop the play in that direction. Bobby is a hung-up Greenwich, Connecticut rat. Jebbie exclaims, "I gotta tell you kid, I'm hip to your problems (Greenwich and all that) because I get calls from two-hundred little madras...
Finally, Jebbie begins to wax dramatic about the smell of death (carbon bisulfide). At that moment, something incredible happens: what appears to be a ten-foot-high black baby wakes up screaming in her crib. Actually she is Carolyn Y. Cardwell, from Robert Downey's Putney Swope, and probably is no more than five and a half feet tall. Bobby wants to eat her and Jebbie does not. The baby then screams, "Rats! rats! rats!" and the lights black out (except the cue was missed on Thursday). Jebbie is left weeping and asking "Why?" If the rats are simply anthropomorphic...
Appointed director of studies at Geneva's Rousseau Institute, Piaget continued to investigate this phenomenon. He spent long hours observing the crib activity of his own three children, shot marbles on hands and knees with Genevan boys as he tested their ideas and feelings about ethics and the rules of games, and gently asked schoolchildren questions about the numbers and groupings of flowers and beads that he gave them to play with. His investigations led him to detailed observations on how children acquire such complicated concepts and abilities as space, geometry, causality, logic, moral judgment and memory. Le Patron...
...dark room, at the moment, I'm working on a picture of Joyce in her crib. She was eight or nine months at the time. In this photo, she's an ungodly mess. Been crying. Scratched her own face. Hair matted with tears and sweat. Wet pants. . . . Her eyes are unfathomably deep. Deep as the eyes of a hypocrite who suddenly discovers he must adhere to one of his fronts to survive. Deep as the eyes of a martyr discovering cowardice. Deep as the eyes of a politician turning from an applauding audience and suddenly feeling that only the chair...