The bird has flown. Or is about to.
The other day I put Milo in his crib so he could scream at the air instead of in my ears. I told him to take a moment to calm down and I would come back for him. So I left, and when I came back he was sitting on the railing of the crib, crying now because he didn't know how to get down. Since his little blood-spurting spill on Sunday, and a subsequent tumble down a couple stairs on Monday, we've become inclined to think that he may just crack his head open on his bedroom floor, stain it with blood, and cost us our security deposit. Entonces, we spent this afternoon bolting the bookshelves to the wall and getting most things out of his reach and, finally, dismantling (not "deconstructing," mind you) his crib and putting his mattress on the floor.
[Cue dramatic music. Rapid zoom onto faces of Brad and Katie looking as though Gojira just rose from the ocean off the coast of Tokyo.]
We were pretty sure it would take the better part of this week to get him to sleep tonight. Katie walked him through his normal bedtime routine, then put him on his mattress like a little hobo and laid down next to him. After 20mins. of this I could still hear him talking and squirming, and then she sent me in to see what I could do. Long and short of it was that I put him back on his mattress still wide awake, but calm, and after a little shooshing from the floor next to him, my hand resting on his chest, I asked him, "You okay? Can I go?" and he said, "Doh," (which is, in translation, "Go"). I walked out while he was still looking up at the ceiling, but never heard another peep out of him.
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