So it's happened. The inevitable. They made it out.
Apparently, while I was holed up in an office in London and relishing three nights of uninterrupted r.e.m., the boys figured out how to climb out of their cribs. At 6 a.m. hubby woke with a start to see two grinning little faces right next to his own.
This morning they gave me the demo: Jake climbed up on the railing and jumped down into Z's crib. (joys of apartment living: the cribs are jammed next to each other, nose-to-tail style.) Then, no doubt egged-on by mutual words of encouragement, they both climbed up the rail of Z's crib, levered over the top and onto the window sill, and jumped to the floor.
For the record, we live on the 16th floor. They were on the window sill. Feeling really good about enormously thick, double-paned glass right about now.
So. It's over. No more crib jail. No more: well, i'll just let them scream a smidge longer so I can finish my shower. No more: well, sure he doesn't want to go to sleep but lets just let him cry it out, he'll stop soon.
I know, I know - in the long run, its a good thing. After all, think of how unimpressed any woman would be if showing her his crib was, in fact, a truly literal suggestion. And I know even in the nearer term, that additional bit of autonomy could, theoretically, grant us a teensy bit more sleep on a Sunday morning. Maybe, just maybe, they'll crawl out of their beds, head straight for the legos, and entertain themselves for, say, 20 mins. One can only dream.
Still. It's a milestone. And now we have to actually *assemble* the big-boys beds, still nesting in their flat-packs.
Anybody need a crib, or two?