I know that awhile ago I talked about transitioning Blonde Bear into her own bedroom. That transition seems to be complete and irreversible. I say it is an irreversible transition because a few nights ago, I was trying to squeeze an extra few minutes of sleep into the night.
Blonde Bear is waking at 5am these days. And I don’t want to get up until 6:15am. So in a vain attempt to get an extra bit of sleep, I picked her up, fed her a warmed bottle and then put her in the bed beside me hoping she might fall asleep for a few minutes longer. She didn’t. She mewled around beside me, squirming about and generally making it impossible for me to sleep.
And then she made a noise. A weird noise. A noise like something primordial crawling out of swamp. A noise like something from a Stephen King novel. Remember when the father took that dead cat up to the pet cemetery and it came back, sort of alive? That was the noise.
And then the smell of partially digested, hot baby formula hit me.
I reached around, yanked the cord for the bedside lamp and…decided there and then that Blonde Bear will sleep in her own crib, all night, every night.