Hey Maria. So, it’s interesting that you’d write about food, because Miles has discovered a new favorite. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Last week, Miles got himself a big boy bed. My dad and I built him one. And by my dad and I, I mean my dad. I occasionally went downstairs to the basement to tell him all the ways he was doing it wrong, so I suppose you could say I was Supervisor on the Project. Anyway, let’s just say that all the people who had designated the Getting of the Big Boy Bed as the End of All Sleeping During the Day were right. (Sorry for all those capital letters, but it had to happen.) Even though Miles has been an awesome sleeper for all the two-and-a-half years that have been his life, he’s drunk on the freedom now. He even tells me, in a very proud voice, “I no sleep at all, Mama” when I finally give in and bring him downstairs after a two-hour standoff.
A few nights ago, which would also be the the second day of this nonsense, when Scott and I were getting ready to go to bed, I noticed some orange grainy stuff all over my pillow. I immediately thought to blame Scott, because that’s what good wives do, but he had no idea what it was. I smelled it, because that’s what good moms do, despite this being THE WORST IDEA EVER most of the time. It smelled like candy. And that was when I noticed the empty Maalox bottle on the shelf above our bed.
That was the moment I realized what an unfit parent I am. And the moment that I realized how unready I was for a Big Boy Bed.
Miles’s room is right next door to our room, with a door that connects them. That’s a terrible description, but maybe you get the idea. I would draw a picture, but I just barely learned how to write words on this blog, so let’s not get greedy. I had totally thought about all the ways Miles might kill himself in his own room, which is why I went all crazy attaching dressers to walls and buying outlet covers and all the other baby-proofing things that I’d scoffed at in the past. But I had never considered all the ways he might kill himself in our room. And I hadn’t used the Maalox since Genevieve was born, so it was not really on my mind. And Miles isn’t really a kid who gets into things he’s not supposed to or put his fingers in outlets. And those are all good excuses about how I did not mean to jack up my child, right? Even though I left the candy-tasting medicine right in his general eye-line with everything but a blinking neon sign that said “Eat Me” on it.
I did what every logical person would do and called the pediatrician. Ha! You know me better than that. I didn’t want the pediatrician to judge me. I Googled it. Most of the posts I found were about how people’s kids ate, like, the residue that was left on a table where a Maalox tablet once sat. And the comments were mostly along the lines of, “You stuped idiot! U must want ur child to dye a chalky constipated death. Why do you sit here and Google when you should be at the ER?!?” The number of grammatical errors in those comments gave me a great deal of comfort, especially when I realized that the people who spelled things correctly were saying, “Chill, it’s just a glorified calcium pill. The kid might have trouble pooing for awhile, but he probably will be just fine.” Miles had already pooed (information that you didn’t expect to get in my very first post ever) by that time, so I tried to take the “Chill” advice.
Everything was fine.
Except that Genevieve also rolled off the ottoman. She is also fine. Me? Not so much. If you need me, I will be installing foam pads to all the sharp corners of our home.