We have been trying to move Ezra into his room and bed for a few weeks now. I could say months, but it wouldn’t be completely honest. It was less of a concerted attempt and more a sporadic “wonder if?” type of situation. For the past few weeks we lay him down in the crib for naps to get used to it. He is not a fan. After much protesting, some shrieking, and even tears on some occasions, one or the other of us breaks down and brings him to our bed.
Add to this his new talent for inching around all over the place, his proficiency in the back to belly roll, and his complete inability to roll belly to back and we have a semi-mobile, very easily frustrated baby. He quickly rolls onto his stomach but then can’t return to his back, so he inches himself like a little worm all over the place, complaining the whole time. If he flips at night, it’s a wake-up for both him and me, so I have been pushing harder to get him in his crib than his Poppa. But then, oh but then. Something like this happens:
Last night I went to bed too late once again, ready for blissful sleep to take me over as it had for Ezra. He lay in the middle, arms and legs akimbo, baby belly hanging out in all its glory. About 30 minutes later I was awoken by the flailing of little limbs and some quiet grunts. Baby boy had inched his way over to Momma, laying on his side right behind me, kicking me in the back. I woke up, rolled him to his back, put him back in the middle of the bed and turned on my side again. He started again with the flailing and whimpering, so I turned back and laid my cheek on his forehead, my hand on his belly. He placed his little hand on my chest and snuggled into my shoulder, and we both fell asleep.