It’s about 7:45 and everyone is in bed. Of course, after I’ve come back downstairs, there is always some settling, a few more trips to the bathroom and an occasional search for a stuffed animal that has little feet skittering across the floors above. The night was no exception. C calls downstairs, to me, “Mom, V is trying to get out of the crib!”
My buns were just about to hit the chair so that I could eat my rapidly cooling dinner. Another jog up 15 stairs to wrangle with V just wasn’t going to happen. “Just go to sleep!” I bellowed back up the stairs at C, hoping that the footsteps I heard would peter out in a few minutes. A few minutes more became 15 minutes and then I heard the closet door in the girls room open. More footsteps and some mysterious bumps followed. I couldn’t ignore it any more. What in the world were they doing up there?
Up the stairs I went. I crossed the threshold to see C face down on the bed, softly snuffling into her pillow. I look to my right, where there crib is, and there’s V.
Beside the crib.
“Hi,” she says, her pacifier wedged in the corner of her mouth like a gangster’s cigar.
“Hi,” I say, my brow furrowing in question as I wonder why C took her sister out of the crib and left her to her own devices. I hoisted her up and dropped her unceremoniously back into the crib. “Go to bed,” I said very firmly, tucking her in with some toys and her lovey.
Back down the stairs I went, hoping to get the remainder of my dinner down my throat before the clock rolled on to half past eight. I sat down, put my napkin in my lap and heard the pitter pattering of feet over my head. Again.
My patience hadn’t dimmed, it’d been snuffed out spectacularly, and I took to the stairs.
Up the stairs I went, two at a time. When I get to the girls’ room, this is what I saw — and I’m including a picture of the scene of the crime so you can put it in perspective.
V is standing in the middle of the room on the rug. She starts at my approach. She is the visual equivalent of the word “Busted!”. With wide eyes and sharp breath of “Oh!” She scrambles forward to the rocking chair foot rest and gains purchase. From the footrest, she catapults herself to the rocking chair itself. Using the arms of the chair for leverage, she hoists herself up and onto the edge of the crib, swings one leg over, then the other, sliding onto the mattress.
She turns to me, pacifier clenched in the corner of her mouth and says, in a this-whole-thing-was-probably-a-bad-idea-but-too-late-now kind of voice, “Ta-da!”
And just like that, it clicks into place that C had no parts of V standing beside the crib. She did that herself; C was just crying out fair warning and I was too focused on chow time to heed her. So V’s spidey senses are kicking in and she’s Cirque Du Soleil-ing in and out of the crib any time she feels like it. Third child and I’ve never considered a crib tent before, but I’m starting to price them out on Amazon.
On the other hand, if I cultivate these gymnastic feats, we could have a future Dominique Dawes or Gabby Douglas in the making. . . .I’m just saying. . . #scholarship