In the interest of conserving car-van-space, we elected to leave Percy’s pack ‘n play behind when we made our epic journey to the Midwest.
We knew we’d be able to borrow a playpen from my sister once we were there, so we only had to worry about finding a sleeping place for the little tyke while we were on the road. Which meant….the little tyke slept in a proper bed. With people.
Even an earthworm could have predicted we’d have a problem on our hands at the end of our 22-day-odyssey. And we did. Do. Have a problem on our hands.
Sure, he may fall asleep in his crib, but he inevitably wakes up somewhere between 11 and midnight, and insists on being carried to our room, next door. If we try to be firm and place him back in his crib, he screams. Loudly and for a seemingly infinite period of time. But if we acquiesce and plop him in the middle of our bed, he twists and turns a handful of times before settling in for the remainder of the night.
For the first couple of days after we got home, we were so exhausted, we didn’t really care if we had a pint-sized interloper. But then the post-trip fog wore off (slightly), and we got kicked in the face a time or five. And we woke up in the morning, each clinging to our respective sides; held hostage by a perpendicular-lying toddler.
What was once slightly sweet….had turned sour.
Especially for the professor, whom I observed one night: building a wall of pillows between him and young Percy. So he’d be insulated from the middle-of-the-night attacks by toddler feet.
‘He’s not sleeping in our bed any more,’ the paternus familias proclaimed through gritted teeth. ‘I’m tired of getting kicked in the face.’ I (mostly) concurred. But if I have a choice between letting Percy’s screams punish the entire household (and neighborhood) or sharing my king-sized bed…..well, I’d rather share the bed.
Our young(er) neighbors had a party one night, several weeks (months) ago. By ‘party’ I mean, they sat outside, right under our bedroom window, drinking and talking loudly until the wee hours of the morning. And by ‘the wee hours of the morning’, I mean 8am. During their festivities, Percy had wailed, loudly, several times. So much so, that when the ‘party’ finally ended, I heard our neighbor’s friend say ‘man, that kid sure cries a lot.’
(I almost felt badly.)
All that to say, the kid has some pipes. And, a few nights ago, he put up a considerable fuss when the professor placed him back in his crib after he woke up at 11pm. I braced myself for a long battle of wills, but within five minutes, the crying had stopped. Completely. I marvelled at the professor’s stickwithitness. And its results.
The professor, thoroughly pleased with his parenting skills, drifted off to sleep immediately. And as soon as the ‘[light] sawing of logs’ began, Percy called ‘Mama’ from his crib.
Apparently stickwithitness runs in the family.