Momnesia

Bedtime for Bonzo

So, ever since Emerson has moved to her toddler bed (her crib converted), bedtime has been a challenge. I mean, there were a couple of weeks before she figured out that she could get out of bed without some invisible barrier throwing her up against the wall.

But eventually she did figure it out, and then the time between 8 and 10 p.m. became a game of "What's That Noise? Baby or Burgler?" Of course, we had thought that it was always the baby, but see my previous posts for reasons why I'm now suspicious.

Anyway, we'd begun taking toys away every time she got out of bed. Doctor kit. Princess dress-up box. Toy box. Crayons. Flash cards (oh, god, she's a nerd like her mama. We lurves the flash cards around here). Books. You would think that with consistent positive parenting and communication, we could have knocked this issue out in a couple of weeks. You would think that. And then you would be delusional like us.

Tonight, things came to a head. Her toy box, princess box, giant teddy bear, stuffed bunny rabbit, wooden sword (or, her "arrmatey," as she calls it) snowman pillow, coloring books and crayons all sat piled up in the hallway outside her door. Fed up, I even closed the doors on her bookcase and child-proofed it with zip tabs. "Good idea," Scott crowed. Yes. We had covered every base. Now, I thought, Emerson will submit to our overpowering will and authority. "Defeat!" she will think. "Even the greatest strike out every once in a while." Or something like that - a "the battle is lost, but I have a whole life to wage the war," kind of thing.

More delusions. She did not think "defeat." Emerson sat up in her toddler bed, shook her 2-year-old Afro and thought, "Oh, snap. Now it is ON."

All was quiet on the baby front for for a good 15 minutes. I patted myself on the back, shook my fists over each shoulder in victory congratulation and celebrated with a cup of ice cream. The last ice cream in the house. Nyah nyah, husband-of-mine-who-went-to-the-store-and-bought-everyone-but-his-wife-some-ice cream earlier today. But then, I heard a little scrabbling sound. It could have been the dog, Scrabble. There's a reason we gave him that name. But, of course, it wasn't.

I stomped towards her room. "Emerson!" I called out as I turned the doorknob. "If you aren't-" SMASH!!!! My face hit the door. The door that stopped very suddenly mid-swing. The door that, even when pressed hard against my face, wouldn't open.

"Emmie?" I called, concerned. She didn't respond. "Emmie?!" I called again. Why wouldn't she answer me? Did she escape when I wasn't looking? Was her lifeless body wedged against the door?

"Honey, open the door!" I pleaded. Was one of the crazy people who are bothering us in there with her? Who do I have to kill? I shoved the door harder and it eked open a crack.