The World's Meanest Mother- and I Have Proof

I went to dinner tonight with several good friends.  As it tends to come up with a bunch of mothers we started talking about our children.  Something about the transition to Big Boy/Girl beds came up.  And I shared this story- promising there was a picture.  They said, "Oh- this must be a post- with the picture!"  So . . . here's the story and the picture.

We moved Andrew into a big boy bed at 20 months (thank God I organized and named all of Andrew's photo folders by age, so I found this picture quickly- and knew exactly what age this happened.  Sorry Alexa.  You don't get all that).  Looking back, and comparing to other kids that seems a bit early.  However- Andrew was catapulting himself out of his crib in a very unsafe way.  I would stand outside the door- secretly watching until he made the move and then I'd run into his room and yell, "No!"  I was hoping for a shock factor.  However, my shock factor didn't work.  He refused to nap (Andrew was never much for napping) and I was afraid he'd catapult out in the middle of the night- hurting himself and scaring the mess out of Doug and I.  So we discussed our options: Andrew ending up with a broken neck, or attempting to deal with the transition to a Big Boy Bed.  We didn't go half way- we went all the way to a Big Boy Bed.  The first 2 months were easy.  He went to bed- and stayed there (except for nap time- again not much for napping, much to the chagrin of his teachers at daycare.  We tried bribing him with tractor rides with Doug's school tractor, but . . . only sometimes worked).  Suddenly Andrew realized, he could get out of bed.  And he wouldn't stay in bed at bedtime.  I consulted with friends.  And we decided the best option was to lock him in until we went to bed.  I couldn't leave him locked in all night.  What if he woke up in the middle of the night and needed me?!  That might really hurt his little psyche. 

So . . . the first night rolls around.  We say do the whole routine: bath, story, snuggle, and then we lock the door (which we had turned around- that's a key trick otherwise you are the one locked out, which is not what you want).  Poor Andrew did not care for this situation.  He totally melted down.  Screaming, crying, beating on the door.  Crying, "Mommy!!!!" 

I did what anyone in this predicament would do.  Nope- I didn't cave.  I called MY mother and cried.  She coached me through it.  She assurred me I was doing the right thing otherwise he'd only learn to throw fits and then he'd get his way, and he'd never stay in bed.  I needed to stick to my guns.  It would be ok. 

After I hang up, I return to Andrew's now silent door and this is what I discovered.

 There.  His little hand reaching out from under the door, longing for Mommy to come and make everything better.  Did I dash in there and pick him up and love him and hug him.  Not right away.  I waited to make sure he was really and truly asleep- and then I went in, picked him up- while he continued to sleep, and hugged and kissed him and cried about how much I sucked.  But the next night he knew I meant business and we didn't have the fight.  (For the record, I'll have to do this for every night, for 3 months- until I break- with Alexa)