High and dry

Jonah's sleeptime ritual includes storytime followed by turning on the classical music and Mom putting up the gate in his doorway so he stays in his room. He may go right to sleep, or he may play for a few minutes with his toys before dragging one or two of them into his big-boy bed to fall asleep with. Sometimes he'll fuss a bit, but usually he knows it's time for sleep and he goes down pretty easily.

Today he was rubbing his eyes after lunch, and though it was earlier than his normal naptime, I decided to follow his cues and put him down. For several minutes after I put the gate up I'd hear bursts of cries followed by short periods of silence. I decided to let him work things out on his own and figured he'd get himself to sleep. After fifteen minutes of this, the crying became more insistant, so I decided to investigate.

I approached the doorway slowly and at an angle, peering carefully into the room so as not to bring attention to myself if he was really just sitting in the middle of the floor venting. As I got closer and my view of the room increased, I didn't see Jonah in his normal spots for vocalizing his frustration. I inched closer and craned my neck around to take in more of the room. As I did so, I realized why his crying was so sad: atop his nightstand sat my little boy--tearstreaked, red-faced, and hopelessly stranded. He had climbed up and couldn't get down.

I hopped over the gate, rescued the little dude, and had a bit of a cuddle before putting him in his bed once again. He promptly rolled over and dropped off into dreamland.


He didn't appreciate my efforts to re-create the scenario and record it for posterity.

Real Man...

It made it's debut a few weeks ago--just a little dark thing, like a chin hair that needs to be plucked.

Toy-lette paper

When we first arrived in Utah, Jonah was still at the phase where I could not take a shower un-interrupted, so I either had to wait until he went down for a nap or just deal with the constant fight over the shower curtain's position (open v. closed) and with the barrage of objects he deemed should be in the shower with me.

One morning, I decided to try to get cleaned up secretly and quickly before I could be detected. A few minutes in, I heard Jonah wander into the bathroom. He batted at the curtain and emitted a squeal of delight at the prospect of his favorite game. My vocalizations, however, were not ones of delight. With shampoo suds dripping in my eyes, I lunged to firmly maintain the integrity of the vinyl barrier. Surprisingly, he did not put up much of a fight, and I was left in peace to finish my soapy ritual.

Something was nagging at me, though--the silence was suspicious. But I figured I could be sudsy and dealing with a Situation, or done and dealing with one. I opted for the latter. I rinsed off, turned off the water, and took a deep breath. Maybe I was wrong, maybe he was quietly looking at a book in his room. I opened the shower curtain to find my boy in a fluffy nest of white toilette paper studiously finishing his task of unrolling a second roll.