Last weekend during the boys' naptime, I heard a huge crash upstairs. Then silence. Then what sounded like a stampede. I made it up there just as Primo was starting to toddle downstairs, giggling the whole time, he was so pleased with himself.
People are always telling me it gets easier as they get older, and in many ways, I agree that it has. I like not having to carry them around all the time (though they sure are heavy when I do have to carry them), they can now climb into their booster seats at mealtimes, or go get the book they want me to read, and I can mostly trust them on the playground equipment at the park. But Primo can also climb out of his crib, apparently, they both move our dining room chairs all over the downstairs so they can climb and get things they want, and they're not afraid of walking downstairs by themselves now, which they're not quite ready to do. Watching them every single minute so that they don't hurt themselves only to watch them hurt themselves anyway while I'm standing right there takes a lot of energy, and it's plenty frustrating. As wonderful as they are at this age, I'm ready for that part to be over, or at least improve.
They're currently in our tiny bedroom, which is barely big enough for two cribs and a changing table. This weekend, they get to move to the bigger bedroom. Though Primo hasn't jumped out of his crib again, I guess toddler beds—or mattresses on the floor—will be part of the deal. I'm not ready. I wish I could ignore it, kind of like the way I'm ignoring the two potties that were purchased months ago and are now gathering dust in the bathroom. I'm definitely not ready for that.
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