We moved Charlotte out of the crib, and into Cecilia's room, and into a single bed. We also moved Cecilia out of her little crib/daybed into a single bed, and bought new bedding. The room turned out super cute. We moved them both into the smaller of two rooms upstairs because that room has a window air conditioner and although there is one vent in each room up there, it still gets warm, and Charlotte looks so pitiful after waking up from a nap all sweaty. That's the good news. The good news is the room is cute and they have both graduated to regular beds. The bad news is that Charlotte will not stay in her new bed. She gets into Cecilia's bed and jumps around. She goes out into the hall, or comes downstairs saying she needs to go potty, even if she went potty 3 minutes ago. She gets down and takes all the books off the book shelf. This morning I found close to 10 books in Cecilia's bed, including 2 or 3 big books under the covers and down by her legs. Most of the time, if they aren't screaming at each other, I let them work it out. This usually includes going up there about 3 or 4 times a night to scare them with my mom voice back into their beds, and occasionally ends with the crib rolled into the room and Charlotte in the crib in the air conditioning.
John had to work on Sunday, and when I went up there to lay them down for a nap, I noticed two wall hangings were off the wall. They are framed trees that my Grandma Gen made out of fabric and ribbon. I was really, really mad. Cecilia said Charlotte ripped them up, pieces of fabric and ribbon was everywhere. =( I put Charlotte in the crib, yelled, searched frantically for all the pieces of the trees, and yelled some more. Cecilia hid under her covers. As I was leaving I told Charlotte that if she ever did anything like that again I was going to "beat her butt." Cecilia asked, "what does beat mean?"
And in that moment, instead of feeling embarrassed for saying such an awful thing to my child, I felt proud that my children don't know what it means for their parents to hit them. Progress. Evolution.
Labels: as pretty as the angels when they sing, sweet child o'mine