Mama-Come-Lately

Heading up the stairs, the Boo issues a proclamation: “I don’t like my bed.”

Actually what he says is, “You don’t like your bed,” because he’s making good progress on fixing his pronoun usage, but I don’t correct him when he’s overly tired and/or cranky.

I make a light remark about how nice his bed is, with the stripey sheets and the fuzzy green blanket and Tigey and Tigger. He does not reply, and we continue up our climb.

We go through the bedtime routine of books and cuddling on the glider, with a detour for adding batteries to the noise machine. These days he prefers to walk from the glider to the crib, and last night he had a question when he got there.

“What is this?”

“It’s your crib.”

“What is THIS!”

I notice that he’s hanging onto a couple of slats.

“Those are bars.”

“I don’t like bars.”

Ah. Crap. And here I’d had such lovely visions of him staying in his crib until his third birthday.

“Would you like us to take the bars away?”

A huge smile, a beam of little boy light in the dim room.

“YES!”

And now you know what we’ll be doing this weekend: cursing over poorly written directions while wielding an Allen wrench, all in the name of helping our little boy grow up.