I'm having such a hard time letting Luke grow up. He's my baby and I want to keep him that way. I would have left Luke in diapers forever if I hadn't run out of diapers one day last week and didn't want to run to the store because I was relaxing in my "Switchmajamas." (Thank you Sadie for that clever new word).
This also explains why Luke is the only 3 year old I know who still sleeps in a crib. At least he's out of the my walk in closet, people. Baby steps.
So tonight I put my kids to bed at 8 pm. I couldn't wait to sit down to watch some Gymnastics in beautiful silence while I waited for Dustin to come home from whatever it is he does at the Church every Tuesday. I also made myself a snack of wheat thins and Nutella if you want to know more uninteresting details about my evening.
About an hour later I hear crying. I chose to ignore it because I know whoever it is will go back to sleep and Micheal Phelps is swimming, sweet children. I don't love him or anything but I do feel kind of bad for the poor kid. Spoiler -- Phelps gets a silver, dang it, so I mute the TV. It's Luke.
I go in his room and there is Luke standing on a chair trying to get BACK into his crib.
I look around the room and he had obviously gotten out of his bed and played in the dark for an hour or so (how on earth did Nate sleep through all of this) and now he is standing on a purple play IKEA chair with his head resting on the crib bar crying, "I just want to go to bed."
It may be time for a real bed.