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.