Sunday morning Oliver gleefully joined us in bed. Neither of us remembered getting him out of his crib, and then we came to the realization he’d gotten out on his own.
We put O back in his crib and asked him to demonstrate his technique. His style would make a russian gymnast envious. He hoisted himself up at the corner, pivoted a leg around, then he bounced on the giant tiger-striped pillow between the dresser and the crib and then he jumped off.
Time for a toddler bed.
The toddler bed is great, in theory. Oliver loves to sit on it, snuggle under the covers, and get in and out.
Sleep in it? So far, not so much.
O’s usual bedtime is between 7-7:30, so at 7:15 and and I went upstairs, Monster and sippy cup in hand. I helped him into bed, turned out the light, told him I loved him, and then went to check all the doors in the hallway and baby gate were shut. Before I was finished with my checks, I heard wailing and persistent knocking.
That was our first failed attempt. There were several others. He finally fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion around 9:30 pm. At 10:30 pm he fell out of bed. At 2:45 am he decided he’d had enough and joined us, then “slept” until 6:45.
We’ve ordered a meshy side-rail guard to help with the rolling out, and we are fairly sure most of the sleeping problems have been due to the Toddler Plague that’s been going around (to be fair, it is hard to sleep when you are congested).
Eventually we’ll get this down.
