I had planned on posting something yesterday about how excited, and insanely nervous, I was about converting Rosemary's crib into a toddler bed with the two short side rails. I came home from work a little early and decided that maybe it was time for the switch (seeing as she climbed INTO her bed the other day by stepping up onto her kitchen that was strategically placed against the side). I did all of the preparations and exaggerated the fun of the experience.
"Look at the BIG GIRL BED!"
"It is soooo NEAT!"
"Now you can get up whenever you want!" (Oops, probably shouldn't have mentioned that one).
We read books together in her 'new' bed, she did a little jumping on it and we talked about how, now that the side was kind of open, it was going to be different, and way more fun.
Two hours later we heard a significant thud in her room. I thought, hopefully, that my husband had fallen over the dog, again, as he sometimes does; but we found our daughter lying on her back, still wrapped in her Thomas the train blanket screaming, with Elmo next to her on the floor.
After deliberating for about 0.12 seconds (and watching the milk slowly make perfectly formed circles on my shirt from all the crying), the crib rail was back in her room and we fished out the tiny Allen wrench from the Ziploc bag with the other crib accessories.
On the bright side is that no one was hurt (Elmo also received proper medical care, if you were wondering) and that my husband now is trained in the proper installation of a bumper pad with 24 ties at 11:45 at night, should I ever require that service again.
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