I put Carter down around 11—he’d been up since 5:30, so I figured an early naptime would work.
He played for a while and then started calling, “Mommy! Mommy!” I called his name back, but he wouldn’t stop.
So, I went into his room and he’s standing in the corner of his crib, pointing at the black poop that was smeared all over his bedsheets.
After his shower, load of laundry and change of sheets, I put him back into his crib.
I’m in the garage, looking for some random tools and I hear Carter crying. Just for a little bit.
He’s okay, I thought. The cry even sounds a bit fake.
Then, I hear him, a little louder than he should be. Knocking on his bedroom door, yelling, “Hello!!”
I go to his room and sure enough, he’s right behind the door.
My mind is spinning—Carter can now climb out of his crib. What am I going to do when I need a shower? Or, when he needs “quiet time” with his books? I guess I have to bolt all of his furniture to the wall now—there’s no guaranteeing I can supervise him in the room all the time now.
I feed him lunch because we’ve missed the early nap window. Change his diaper, wrap his hand up (another story) and wonder how he’s gonna nap.
I remember this great contraption that we used a lot when Carter was younger--Baby Jail. So, I find it, put it up in his room, drop him in and wait to see if he can figure this thing out. He stays put, but commences to cry. Loudly.
The crying doesn’t stop as soon as I thought it would. I go back to his room, pick him up, and rock him. He refuses to let sleep overtake him.
So, only 2 ½ hours after my first attempt to get Carter to sleep, I’m hunched in the corner of Baby Jail, knees held to my chest, patting my son’s back as he fights to fall asleep on the carpet.
Take 3 worked.