Yesterday morning, when we went to raise our little apocalyptic horsemen from their angelic slumber, we discovered Destroy perfecting his pommel horse routine upon the railing of his crib.
Jon: That’s really impressive.
Me: I know! That takes a lot of upper body strength.
Jon: And flexibility. You couldn’t that.
Me: Nope. But I’m working on stretching.
Destroy: MOMMEE! WATCH!
Jon: He’s going to fall and break his neck.
Jon: I’ll transform the cribs to toddler beds today.
And so the day had come. I prepared to bid a fond farewell to creatively contained youngsters trapped behind wooden bars while I dreamed of glorious uninterrupted slumber. We decided to introduce the boys to their new beds when they got home from school so bedtime wouldn’t be quite such a traumatic surprise.
This did not go as planned.
Both little dudes hopped right into their new digs and snuggled right in. Well, first they marched over to the futon and re-acclimated all the stuffed toys to their respective beds. And THEN they snuggled right in and demanded a bedtime story.
Am I the only mother who has dragged her children from their beds, insisting, “No! You WILL come downstairs and play now!”
“Noooooo! Brush teeth! Ni ni!” they wailed.
Am I really having this argument?
I bribed them with Cheerios, Goldfish and chicken. Also, milk in a non-sippy cup. Even though I knew that would end poorly for me.
Sure enough, Search took one bite of chicken, spilled his cup all over himself (and the general seating area) and announced “ALL DONE” as he shoved himself back away from the table.
The chair tipped back over, clattering to the ground. Little man’s booster chair went flying down the sloped mission-style backing, shooting him off the back end directly through the center opening of the baby gate into the living room.
Search lay momentarily still – clearly readying himself for an Academy Award worthy woe-is-me wail. I was laughing hysterically. Tears were streaming down my face as I snorted at the visual.
Jon: Are you ok, dude?
Destroy: Milk peeing on chair.
Jon (to me): Are you high?!
Me: I’m crying over spilt milk…
Search: Bedtime? (The prospect of his big boy bed made his little adventure here less of a cause for concern.)
We raced through bath time (with more water ending up on the tile floor and me as opposed to within the porcelain tub and upon the intended muppet-y targets). The boys were dragged into the living room and forced to have fun with their new baseball gloves for the remainder of the evening.
Finally Jon uttered the magic words, “You guys ready for bed?”
“YEAH!” chorused the peanut gallery.
Destroy flattened himself back up against the entertainment center. “MOMMEE! WATCH!”
He raced forward, vaulting across the little red pedal car (which went shooting sideways across the room) to complete his gymnastics rotation for the day. Completely unfazed, he continued his racing toddle toward the stairs and darted upward.
By the time I arrived in the nursery, Destroy was vigorously bouncing on his sports-sheeted mattress. Search had removed his pants, found his lovey and was stubbornly sucking his thumb.
Sleep was a debatable concept. But I did not care. They were in their bed and refusing to get out. They can tell ghost stories to their heart’s content as long as they stay put. Although they’re far more likely plotting their next move in the race to send Mommy to the rubber room.
There was nary a peep. Silence the entire night through.
We’ve been warned that such enthusiasm will only last until the novelty wears off. I’m not so sure. I’m 31 and still get giddy with excitement to curl up under the cozy covers for a long night’s slumber.