I'm talking about the end of life as we know it. This week, Dean Davis learned to climb out of his crib.
Pause with me here while I silently mourn the era of putting children to bed and not worrying about them getting out of the bed again until we were good and ready to come get them.
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OK. I'm working on pulling it together. (sniff. sniff. sigh.)
The thing is, we tried for a few days to just tell him to "Stop it!" firmly, and also to "indicate" (read: lie) that it was actually impossible to climb out of the crib. Unfortunately, my child never listens to a thing we say. And eventually, he made it all the way out, and fell -- with a heart-stopping thud -- on to the floor. He landed on his arm in such a way that I could readily see the soft cast he's going to have at some point, at least once, but maybe more than that, in his young life. Thankfully, we were spared a trip to the emergency room -- and he only cried for about 5 hearty minutes.
Lester tried to linger a little longer in denial, by saying, "Well, at least he won't try that again!"
But the next night, our little maverick cried real tears because we'd pushed his crib too far away from the dresser for him to get the leverage he needed to hoist himself over the crib rail. Real tears! This daredevil was determined to try it again! The night after nearly falling to his death!
So as we all know, this means the cribs have to go. Once a climber, always a climber.
So, this weekend, Lester's going to break the cribs down into toddler beds. And life as we know it will end.
Thanks, Mayans.
(Throwback pic of the boys in the little room -- which is now Clair's -- when Cary first learned to stand up in the crib and Dean was all like, "Hey! How the heck does he do that?")
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| The good ole days. |
