Simon is no longer working. Much to my dismay he insists on growing, both physically and mentally. Every bed and naptime for the last five days, he has resisted going into his crib. He has cried, he has raged, and he has manipulated his commodious mother into rocking him to sleep every single time. Bad mommy. Clever Simon.
It is time, I acknowledge, to give up the crib. He hasn't crawled out of it in a week, but it's clear that he's ready to give it up. I intuited this when he told me, "No more crib. Simon bed." Sometimes, the subtle cues are obvious enough to penetrate even the haziest fog of denial.
And if he is ready to give up the crib, then (deep fortifying breath) maybe it's time to give up the high chair as well. When does it end? Next thing you know, he'll be four and a half pounds heavier, and ready to move into the booster car seat, and it's just a half a step from there until he's retired and collecting a pension.
To say that having two
I look at them, these strange creatures that call me Mum (they're not even in school, and already I'm no longer Mummy) and I never want it to change. I don't want them to grow up into querulous ten-year-olds, nor petulant teenagers. I don't want them to tower over me; I want them to be just the right size for me to fold my arms around them and scoop them up and make them a part of me again. I don't want their downy cheeks to bristle, I don't want their sweet milky skin to smell like musk - and I sure as hell don't want them to smell like some other woman. I don't want to watch them graduate, to move away, to fall in love and get married and have a family other than us.
But mostly I don't want to let Simon have a bed because it's easier when he's in his crib and I know where he is. He's a pest, that one. Nothing but trouble. And the idea of him wandering around and on the loose late at night when everyone is sleeping should scare the hell out of you, too.