A while back his caretaker informed me that he had taken a header out of the crib. I may have mentioned this--it totally freaked me out. Naturally I responded in a calm and collected manner--I promptly emailed every parent I know and asked what the heck do I do. Of course I knew what to do. It was time to put him in a big boy bed. But I couldn't do it. A big boy bed meant that he would be free. Unrestrained. The world was his. Danger was imminent. And, as awful as this sounds, it meant the few precious minutes between his bed time and mine weren't, well, mine. Besides, it had only happened once.
Until now. That's right, it has happened again. Not to mention the at least once per day acrobatics that come with him pretending to hurl himself out of the crib and onto the floor. Plus now he's older and taller, so it is much scarier. And so, with a sigh, I resigned myself to the fact that he is growing up and so should his sleeping arrangements.
The funny part is, I keep thinking of excuses not to do it today, while at the same time having a coronary that he'll fly again. It's a weird tug-of-war taking place in my head and my heart. Really? THIS is complicated? What the heck? Nobody told me that something as simple as "change his bed" would be a life-altering issue full of guilt and worry and irritation. What if he doesn't sleep? What if the nanny can't get him to sleep? What if he hurts himself roaming his room? Where should I put the night light? What if he gets out? When should I do it so it's least disruptive? Why didn't anyone tell me this about parenthood? They did? Oh. Well WHY DIDN'T I GET IT? Not that I would change a thing, obviously. It's just so strange to me that a seemingly small, bizarre event can send shock waves through my life. Parenthood is strange.
Now excuse me, I have to take a nap under my desk. Better stock up while I can.
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