It's not that I view cribs as a form of incarceration. Let's just say that I see them as convenient, keep-your-kid-safe tools that prevent children from bounding around the house like wild monkeys hopped up on caffeine and sugar, accidentally hurting themselves. That is, until my kids started hurling themselves over the crib rails when they were 18 months, and of course, they consistently landed on their heads.
Up until now, I'd grown to cherish my twin toddlers' naptime as my opportunity to do some writing, reading, or paperwork without the prying, sticky fingers of my cherubs getting drippy snot on my papers, and without hearing the incessant shrieking and inevitable slap when one of them dared to extract a single LEGO from the other kid's pile. When they were in their cribs, they were safe. They weren't going anywhere. And they weren't fighting.
But all that changed.
It started with Jonah one summer afternoon. I was in my office when I suddenly heard a horrific slam in his room. When I got there, he was playing quietly with some toys on the floor. The only thing that indicated a problem was the bright red splotch on his forehead. I screamed, fearing that he was just in some sort of daze and had sustained lasting brain damage. I ran my fingers over the red area. No bump. He seemed fine, but I was totally shaken up. How did he get out here? Was this a mistake?
So what did I do? I put him back in, praying it was an aberration.
Minutes later, the prisoner escaped again. When I returned, he was sitting in the same spot, playing with toys with a second red splotch on his face.