One lovely, fairly reliable thing about hitting a low spot is that things shift, often right away. (Writing about it helps too!)

Friends wished that perhaps a year from now we’d look back and laugh about our disaster Monterey visit, but after a what-kindergarten-is-our-daughter-going-to-in-two-weeks freakout and a couple good days with the kids, I already have fond, perhaps fictional memories of that trip. It might be delusional, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.

But the fantastic news is that little J, after increasing hysteria and vocal resistence to cribs, booster seats, and high chairs has liberated himself, and it’s going ok! Yes, we took the side off the Ikea crib and it’s a toddler bed now!

We were wondering if he’d be ready “soon” or “in the next few months” for a big boy bed, but on our delightful visit to Monterey, the two year old officially and irrevocably stopped using high chairs or booster seats. He just would not sit in them, but if allowed to sit on his own in the big chair at a table, would (mostly) sit and eat. OK, point taken.

Then last night at bedtime he pole-vaulted out of the crib, a la Cirque du Soleil. This was the clear sign, he was done with that thing. Everyone stopped their nighttime activities to watch daddy pull out the Allen wrench and reconfigure the bed. (As an aside, there’s nothing in the world quite as comforting as the smiling Ikea instruction manual man. He looks so goofy but pleased with himself, and surely if a blob like that can convert a crib to a toddler bed, I can do it!)

But the miracle: after finally falling asleep, our boy had his best, quietest, sweetest night’s sleep in weeks and weeks, maybe ever! 

I’m writing this blog quickly tonight, so I don’t yet know if we have a night two success. Really I don’t want to know. I want to savor this sweet victory and imagine it means he’s now a peaceful, screamless sleeper. The End!

But I do think it’s possible that little J was just sick and tired of being treated like a baby, snapped into dining chairs and locked up in a jail-bed. He’s got a big swirl of words he understands and wants to say, and just because he can’t say them doesn’t mean he’ll consent to being treated like a dolt.

He might not quite be ready to be a little man (I’d say some skills with the Pixar-Cars-themed baby toilet would be required for that), but he’s ready to be a big boy. I hope.

I couldn’t be prouder!