The THUNK heard round the world

I was dropping C off at daycare last week and having a nice chat with his daycare provider when she (I assume jokingly, but subsequent events now have me wondering) that we need to start outfitting our little guy with a helmet. And face mask. I laughed and nodded. Sure! Don't all toddlers need those? Yep - I laughed and nodded and watched as C, gazing over his shoulder and up at us with his beautiful smiling face, ran smack into a wall. Some days I think he's just one Acme rocket short of a Wile E. Coyote pratfall.

He seems to have entered into an age of invincibility. Where he harbors no fear of heights, of falling, of cars or of dogs (even when attempting to ride them or when gouging them - ever so lovingly - in their unsuspecting eyes). He even seems to be overcoming his phobia of ceiling fans and steam (though wet hair remains questionable). Yes, my son the warrior is growing up and is ready and eager to take on the world. So what happened next really shouldn't have been a surprise to me at all.

My parents had the ability to sense that I was doing something wrong before any disobedient thought had even entered my mind. I don't know if it's an inherited gift or if, perhaps, all parents have some semblance of a sixth sense but on Sunday, as I put C down for his nap, I took a step back and knew without knowing that the wheels in his head were spinning in a devious direction. That feeling, coupled with what I can only imagine is an inate need that children experience to visit emergency rooms during the course of long weekends, should have given me pause. Instead, I kissed my son on the head and left the room. No more than a few moments later, I heard it...

THUNK!

G and I exchanged worried glances in the split instance it took us both to acknowledge the sound and sprint down the hall and into C's room. G burst in first but over his shoulder I spied the discombobulated little body of my sweet boy. He was already wailing, red faced with big plum fat tears dripping down his cheeks. I scooped him up in my arms and began to simultaneously comfort and examine him for (what I was sure at the time would be) portruding bones or signs of paralysis. I wrapped my arms around him like protective bubble wrap and vowed to never let him touch anything but pillows, feathers and declawed kittens for the rest of his life.

So, his first attempt to flee the crib ended poorly. Andy Dufresne he is not (though I'll be sure to take note if he pins up a Rita Hayworth poster any time soon). After the great escape G and I spent the next hour a) discovering that there was yet a lower crib setting and b) arguing and wrestling the crib into submission lowering the crib to said setting. If his mattress gets any lower, C will be sleeping in the basement. 

C had never attempted to scale the crib railings before this weekend and (in light of his tragic tumble) has yet to try again since. I am tempted to pad the floor with teddy bears and trampolines in the event that he manages to scramble out. I figure if he's got the will he'll find a way. Where the top rail before came up to his shoulders now comes up to his chin - that's only a few more inches of toddler gusto between confinement and sweet freedom. I have watched this child smack into more than one wall in his life - a fall from his crib, however traumatizing for all, is unlikely to deter him from a follow-up effort in the near future. Hence, the toddler rail.

While I wish we could put a railed roof over the crib (you say "cage", I say "cube of safety"), I think I have to accept the fact that my little Houdini will find a way out - and that he's growing up. Gone are the days where I can plunk my happy babe down in his crib and he wouldn't so much as roll over. So we've ordered a toddler rail - a rail about a half of the height of the one he has now...with a gaping hole at one end. A door. An exit. Permission to leave the crib at his discretion. I shudder at the thought. I'm already having visions of finding him curled up sleeping in the closet or swinging by the window drapes. I ask myself what the harm would be in keeping him sequestered in his safe little crib for a little while longer (like, until college). I guess that this is just another indication that I have to keep learning to let him go - if only an inch at a time. He's gaining independence all the time - word by word, step by step. Until those words turn into little sentences and those walking steps speed into a run. I know I need to celebrate these moments as accomplishments - and to realize that not recognizing these developments and his growth is setting us all up for a metaphorical tumble. It isn't easy, the letting go. I cry each time I pack away clothes that he no longer fits into. My heart hurts a little each time he lets go of my hand to try something new on his own. This time last year he was barely crawling - and now he's running, and climbing, and dancing...and falling. Falling, it seems, is as much part of the story as the successful step. And I know that there may come a time that he stops glancing over his shoulder to make sure I'm watching - and I cheer inside knowing that it's because he trusts I'll be running somewhere behind.