I will note that we have, only just tonight, finally converted my son’s crib to a toddler bed. Developmentally speaking, we probably ought to have gotten to this a bit ago, but he never really got to the point where he was trying to crawl/climb out of his crib so it didn’t make itself a very high priority.
This means, of course, that now, once we put him to bed at night, he can get out.
There are not that many ways in which I look back at my childhood and recognize that I tormented my parents. I’m fully aware that I was a pain in the ass, mind you, as all kids are, but there aren’t many specific ways that I can name. One of them, though, where I’m not sure how my parents got through my early years without killing me, was my penchant to get out of bed over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again to go to ask my parents– well, anything. Requests. Demands. Complaints. Existential horror. Whatever.
I have mostly not wanted to turn the boy’s crib into a bed because I can feel the evil claws of Karma scratching at the back of my neck. The boy, as much as he might not want to admit it, is me writ small in a plethora of ways, and I suspect that we’re about to find one of them. Tonight, it begins. There will never be privacy again.