Yup. I was right.

Tonight's Festival of Bedtime started at 7:30 with a nice warm bath. It was followed by wrestling the Little Man into clothes, and an attempt to "wind down" playing with the Poker Chips in a Coffee Can toy. Then, to the bed. At around 8. And then the game was on.

First Quarter: Mommy plays bed goalie. She plays music, says soothing things that include "nigh-night" every-other word, and makes sure all squirming body parts remain on the bed. All while enduring ear-splitting screaches, and "you've broken my heart" crying, complete with the "I-can't-catch-my-breath" sobs. Oddly enough, the only thing that actually calmed him down was his little praying frog his Grandma got him. I guess you probably do need the Lord the second night in your Big Boy Bed.

8:30, and Little Man is at least calm enough that 100% of his body parts are no longer moving 100% of the time, signaling . . .

Second Quarter: Mommy covers the Little Man up, and plays Referee at the door. Referee involves standing at the door saying "don't get out of that bed" "Get back in that bed" and "Mommy's watching you, you'd better stay in that bed". Over, and over, and over, and over. Much more crying and throwing of body down on the bed ensues.

Half Time: Daddy decides that the Little Man has been crying entirely too long, and Mommmy just isn't doing it right. Daddy tries being the bed goalie, only nicer. Half time ends when Daddy yells "we've got a runner!" and washes his hands of the whole mess.

Third Quarter: Involves Refereeing again. The Little Man put up more of an offense, involving sliding slowly off the bed so the Ref wouldn't notice and covering up and covertly peeking out to see if the Ref was still watching. Not so much crying - except when Mommy deployed her secret weapon of a tap on the bottom. Finally, after stepping out of line-of-sight for over 1 minute with no movement, Mommy declared victory.

8:43, and Mommy mistakenly forgets that there's always a

Fourth Quarter: Three successful breakouts were staged. Parental defense was laggerdly (the Little Man got all the way to the kitchen and grabbed a sippy cup with water in it on one forray). However, we finally wore him down.

9:05 and it is finally Game Over. The Little Man is asleep. And we are tired of this hour-and-a-half Festival of Bedtime. Hopefully over the next few days we can turn it into more of just bedtime.

Shah, right. As I said. We are SO screwed.

Oh. We. Are. So. Screwed.

The Little Man reached a milestone tonight for which Mr. Me and I oh-so-weren't prepared. He climbed out of his crib.

Gulp.

Actually, the "climb" was more of a "fall". Thankfully, it wasn't directly on his little noggin. Mommy wasn't home at the time, but Mr. Me tells it that he fell on his back and bounced up like an India rubber ball, grinning for all he was worth about his new-found skill.

Because of his less-than-graceful crib exit strategy, Mr. Me made the executive decision to remove the side of the crib and turn it into a daybed. Good thing that Mr. Me was feeling executive, because truth be told, Mommy was at the bar having a well-earned margarita on Work, and wasn't up to being the executive. Actually, being well into her third margarita when she heard the news, she reacted less with executive aplomb and more with "panicked hampster running on wheel" with "Oh, shit, what are we going to do now" racing around her head.

It seems that what we are to do now, according to those online in the know and, of course, the revered Parenting Books, is enforce staying in bed with, Gasp!, discipline and repetition. No more lovely wooden slats to help us to enforce the concept that hey, it's bedtime! We're on our own now. Gone are the days of retiring to the sitting room and Deadwood at 8:05 sharp with great relief (and small amounts of Mommy Guilt for the 5 minutes of pre-sleep crying coming from the bedroom). Judging from this evening, the new routine consists of bedtime story and milk followed by 30 minutes to an hour of Bed Goalie - accompanying the Little Man back (and back, and back, and back . . .) to his newly made Bigger Boy Bed.

Boy, did I pick an appropriate night to start drinking.

Newer And Better Mobility

So the Little Man is now a walker. He walks. Or, maybe, totters like a drunk is a more accurate description. But still! Walking! A crowning achievement.

Not only does he walk, but he must carry as he walks! Empty milk jugs filched from the recycling bag are the perrinneal favorite. Preferably two, one for each hand, but one milk jug and one detergent jug will do in a pinch. Or a ball. Or cup. Or anything pinched from the center of the table or the counter-top, which he can now reach (to his mother's acute dismay).

This walking thing has made for several amusing changes around the house.

When the Little Man escapes off Mommy and Daddy's bed after his morning bottle, I can see his little tow-head bobbing past the end of the bed as he goes from one adventure to the next instead of straining my ears to hear what he's gotten into. It reminds me of a hunting dog's tail flagging his position in the weeds. (The eyes in the back of your mother's head weren't eyes, they were ears. My hearing is getting so acute that I can tell exactly which toy has been thrown at the wall from what position in the room just from the sound it makes)

He's developed a new talent - he plays "fetch". He doesn't quite get rolling or throwing the ball back once a ball is thrown to him. Instead, he'll run after the ball, bring it back and hand it to you. Multiple times in a row. And we didn't even have to get a dog!

He's now on even mobility footing with the WWE wrestler at daycare. Look out, buddy, turnabout is fair play.