When he is three, he will ask, “Mama, when was I in jail?”
I took the crib bumper pad off of his bed last night. I spent the previous evening scared to death that he was going to flip on his stomach and smash his face against the pad, thus suffocating himself.
Being a caring mother, I crept into his room, peered into his bed, reached down to grab him and flipped him onto his back.
And for my 2 AM efforts? I got many angry glares. From an 8 month old. But I suppose that if I were happily sleeping away and giant hands reached down out of the universe, grabbed me, and flipped me over, I might not be too happy either.
In his first act of defiance, he flipped right back over to his tummy. Cheeky little boy.
Giving into fear and casting baby style to the four winds, he is now sleeping in a bumperless bed.
It didn’t take me long to figure out there are some new issues with this – he can now see me as I walk down the hall. Oh yes, he can peer right between the bars of his cell bed and see mommy!
That pacie will undoubtedly be on the floor, behind the bed, in the morning. And if the cats are lucky enough, they will find it and have a new toy. This will lead Ismael to declare war on the cats while he runs to Target to buy new pacies. No amount of sterilization will overcome the contamination of cat slobber on his baby’s pacie.
And, tonight, when he does turn and roll to the side? He will slam his forehead on the bars, lose the pacie, and wake up screaming. For my part, I will roll over, and whisper to Ismael, “I’ll bet the pacie is on the floor – don’t let the cats get it,” and he will be up and running.
The cats would also be the reason for the great white tent on top of his bed. It’s a $45 device that is meant to keep baby in bed and the family pets OUT.
Ismael would freak completely out if the cat was in the baby’s bed, but did he put that contraption together? Oh, no. I sat there, woefully pregnant, trying to bend the rods through material and nearly lost an eye when one shot out of its confines.
I now think of it as the canopy on his cell. A nice homey touch.
So, tomorrow I may be taking a picture of his bruised little face.
And when he is three and looks at his scrapbook of this week, the 8 month anniversary of his birth, he will look at me with big, warm brown eyes and ask me, “Mama, did they hit me in jail?”
I will simply say, “No, baby. Mama loves you is all.”
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