It was a sad week in our household. K. learned how to climb out of the crib.
I know, I'm lucky, he's coming up on three years old. It could have happened much sooner. But so could impaling myself in the eyeballs with a dinner knife. The Lord is merciful.
This means that when he says, "I don't wanna have a nap," he will get his way. I just don't have the arm strength to carry him upstairs and throw him on the mattress so hard the springs cringe when they see him coming. Not more than ten times in a row, anyway.
So now he has become a movie baby. I used to congratulate myself on what a good mother I was for keeping him away from the TV screen so much. Sometimes, two hours would go by without a single movie. But, alas, no more. Mama has deadlines. When baby falls asleep, it's TV time for K. I'm sure he'll have his head filled with violence, sarcasm, and materialism, and he'll be incapable of entertaining himself for life, and it's all my fault. I use the TV as a babysitter, I admit it. So if he's scarred for life, blame me. 'Cause you know what? When he's busy, I can write, and that makes me happy inside.