Category: Borealis

I won a battle last Monday, and I want to tell you about it. 

Of course, the battle was only a metaphorical one, with metaphorical danger. Although, there was literal danger, too.

I mean, there was a metaphorical danger that I would lose the battle. And, there was a literal danger to my daughter’s safety. 

So basically, I won a battle for the sake of Australis… but the battle was also *against* Australis. 

Ok, now I’m just beating around the bush. It’ll make more sense if I tell things straight through. 

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Here’s how it started. Around 2:30pm, I told the kids, “Hey, it’s almost time for your nap. What would you like for your nap time snack?”

Borealis thought for a second, then said, “Um… maybe some cee-yahl and mahlk?” {“Um… maybe some cereal and milk?”}

I groaned, then conceded, “Ok, but first we have to….”

“Tay off yoh puh-gah-muhs, because iss weally messy!” {“Take off your pajamas, because it’s really messy!”}

“Yup,” I confirmed. “Can you take off your pajamas on your own, or do you need help?”

“I fink you nee hahp.” {“I think you need help.”}

“Ok buddy.” As I pulled off his striped PJs, I counted, “One arm; two arms. One leg; two legs.” 

Bo pretended to be shocked at his new state of undress. “You all naked!” 

I laughed. “Yes, you’re all naked. Except for your underwear. And now we have to get Aza all naked too.”

I pulled off Aza’s pajamas and plopped her into her high chair. 

[Note: Yes, my children were still wearing pajamas in the middle of the afternoon. What can I say? Social isolation has made us slobs.]

A minute later, my children were dripping with milk — which is exactly why I make them eat undressed. (With a space heater. I’m not that cruel.) 

I sat down to watch my kids eat. In between bites, Bo told me about his goals for the day. 

“Ah-fuh yuh nap, maybe we tan go to Amma’s house!” {“After your nap, maybe we can go to Amma’s house!” — for reference, Amma is my mother.}

I clucked in sympathy. “I’m sorry bud, we’re not going to Amma’s house today. We’ll go see Amma on Wednesday.” 

Bo thought for a few seconds, then suggested, “Maybe we can haff ice keem!” {“Maybe we can have ice cream!”}

I laughed in surprise. “Um, probably not.” 

Bo persisted. “Maybe we tan do dat!” 

“Maybe,” I conceded. [Note: “Maybe” means almost nothing with me. As in, we didn’t eat ice cream that night.] 

Bo and Aza were soon done eating. Each was now splashing a spoon in their respective bowls of sugary milk, so I retrieved a damp washcloth and wiped off their hands and faces. “Alright, back in your pajamas!” 

After I had both kids suited up for bed, it was time for my favorite game: where are my kids’ special friends?

The answer to this question would be easier if the special friends were all as big as Blankey, which is generally very easy to find. However, Bo’s other three friends are each no larger than a tissue box: Baby Avery, a muslin doll; Gerald, a giraffe lovie; and Thomas, a small die-cast train. (Thomas, especially, likes to hide under the couch.) 

Today, thankfully, all three of these characters — and Blankey — were easily found. I swept them up and deposited them on Bo’s bed. 

While in the nursery, I tossed Aza’s two special friends back into her crib. The stuffed animals — a golden retriever and a pink bunny — are relatively recent adoptions, and both are actually hand-me-downs from me. (Why buy new toys when the old ones still work?)

I’ve been trying to push the golden retriever on her for months with minimal success. The dog — Michael — was my old favorite stuffed animal, and I desperately want for him to become a beloved pet once again. My daughter has only lately started to accept him — and grudgingly, at that. 

In contrast, the pink bunny was an instant favorite — from the moment Aza pulled it from a reused Bath & Body Works bag on Christmas morning. (You can tell that we go all-out for presents.) She immediately cuddled the rabbit close and showered it with kisses, which was possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. 

Taylor and I were split on the bunny’s gender identity. I assumed it was a boy — because my stuffed animals were always boys. However, Taylor pointed out that the rabbit was entirely pink and wearing a fluffy bow. So, we let Bo break the tie. 

“Bo, is Aza’s bunny a boy or a girl?”

“Um, a guhl!” he decided. 

And that settled that. 

Taylor and I initially called the stuffed animal “Sweet Bunny”, but we quickly realized it needed a real name. We let Bo decide that, too.

“Bo, what should Aza’s bunny be named?”

Bo considered for a few seconds, then announced, “Nik-oh-yas!” {“Nicholas” — from Richard Scarry’s I Am a Bunny.}

So, now our daughter’s favorite toy is a girl bunny… named Nicholas. I see no issues here. 

Anyway, back to the story at hand. After relocating all of these special friends, I herded Bo into the bathroom to pee. 

“No!” he pleaded. “Say dwy!” {“Stay dry!”}

I ignored his complaints and sat him down on the potty seat, at which point he promptly peed like a racehorse. 

“Yeah, well now you’ll stay dry,” I concluded. 

A few minutes later, the three of us were finally in the nursery. As I began reading the first of two Bo-selected books, Aza clawed at my chest and moaned, “Boo! Boob! Booooooo!”

I sighed and pulled down the neckline of my dress. “I hate that your father taught you to say that,” I muttered. 

Aza suckled distractedly as I finished reading to Bo, and became even more restless as I prayed. I figured that her frustration stemmed from the eruption blister above one of her molars, but I guess it’s possible that she just didn’t like the prayer. 

Bo joined me in saying, “Amen!”, then asked, “Maybe we tan do some Mommy Talk?” 

“Mommy Talk” — or, more often, “Boy Talk” — is a key aspect of our nighttime sequence. Taylor instituted the routine to ensure he has at least a few one-on-one minutes with Bo (while I nurse Aza). Typically, Bo already gets plenty of one-on-one minutes with *me*. 

I readjusted Aza and conceded, “Ok, yeah, for a little bit. What do you want to talk about?” 

Bo was stunningly silent in response to this question. You know, just like his daddy. I almost expected him to grunt in vague annoyance.

I changed tack. “What do you want to do after your nap?” 

Bo thought for a second. “Um… maybe we tan haff some sehks?”

“WHAT!?” 

“Some sahks.”

“Oh… some snacks?”

“Yeah.” 

I was quite shaken by my initial interpretation of Bo’s request, but I managed, “Um, yeah, we can have some snacks after your nap. And we can probably call your speech therapist at the same time.” 

Before Bo could respond, Aza pushed her face deep into my bosom and blew a long, loud raspberry. As if I didn’t already feel objectified. 

“Aza made toots!” Bo observed. 

“No, she made a raspberry with her lips. Like this — pfffft!” I demonstrated. 

Aza promptly mimicked me — against my breast. It wasn’t my favorite thing. I detached her from my boob, which caused her to squawk in fury and grab a handful of my bust. I swatted her hand away and rose with the decisive announcement, “Nap time.”

I laid Aza in the crib and commanded, “Alright, baby, it’s time for sleeping!”

Alas, my daughter was not in the mood to be commanded. She immediately sprang up and threw Michael from her bed. I sighed, then squatted to retrieve the stuffed animal — just as Nicholas joined him. 

“Great. I can tell you’re really sleepy.” 

I returned the stuffed animals to Aza’s crib, where they remained for all of six seconds. I left them where they lay on the floor and went to give Bo his goodnight kiss. Aza caterwauled angrily as I walked away. 

Smooching Bo, I said, “Goodnight baby! I love you!” 

Bo answered, “Ahll sart dah moo-sic!” {“I’ll start the music!”} — which is not exactly the sweet response for which I had hoped. 

I wound up the “O Holy Night” snowglobe — a gift from his godfather — then returned Michael and Nicholas to the crib one last time. I set them about a foot apart, then laid Aza down between them — her favorite sleep position. Nevertheless, she sprang up and wailed at me. I quickly made my exit, shutting the door just as the stuffed animals hit the ground. 

I retreated to the dining room with the naive hope that things would settle down shortly. After praying, I cracked open my Bible to a favorite chapter. The nursery still reverberated with cries.

I was only halfway through Psalm 51 when I heard a huge thunk!, then a loud scream. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened.

But, in the mere seconds it took me to sprint to the nursery, Aza had already risen to her feet and started toward the door. I guess she must have known I was coming. She was still crying, but she otherwise seemed alright. I scooped her up and sighed. 

It was official. At fourteen-and-a-half months old, Australis had climbed out of her crib — which meant that her nap, at least, was officially canceled. 

I looked at Bo. “Ok, Aza is not going to nap right now. Do you think you’re sleepy enough for a nap?”

Bo flashed a mischievous smile, then said, “Um, I fink we tan fip yoh nap!” {“Um, I think we can skip your nap!”}

So in the end, neither child took a nap that day. 

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I advertised at the beginning of this post that I won this battle. At this point in the story, though, I was feeling much more like the loser. My children were both tired and cranky, and I still had no idea how to safely facilitate my daughter’s sleep. 

I called Taylor, who was still at work. We quickly ran through our options: 

• Transition to toddler bed: No chance. That girl has no impulse control. 
• Net over crib: Due to some legitimate safety concerns, this device is not actually recommended for anti-escape purposes.
• Sheet of plywood over crib: This solution sounds like it would be extremely effective, but it would also make us feel like we were our daughter’s literal jailers. We put this one on the back burner. 
• Special pajamas: Too expensive. 
• Change nothing and hope that she forgets how to climb out: Lolz. 

I ended the phone call feeling pretty hopeless. Even worse, Taylor had to work late, so the fix would be entirely my responsibility. I continued Googling variations of “how to keep baby in crib” until I came across an unexpected recommendation: turn the crib around so that the high side faces away from the wall. 

Aza’s crib is a gorgeous cherrywood piece by Ashley Furniture. When we got it for free off the Nextdoor app, it was in pristine condition. Now, two of the three chin-height guardrails are covered in bite marks. More importantly, though, the fourth side is topped with a high, arched rail — higher than Aza can reach. 

With both kids in tow, I marched back into the nursery. Turning the crib around was just like executing a three-point turn in a car. (Except this was, like, a seventeen-point turn. I’m a bad driver.) 

Since the crib nestles into the northwest corner of the room, two sides are already unscalable — and this reversal took care of another. Now, there was only one short side to toddler-proof. 

Unfortunately, the kids were no longer interested in my safety project. Aza tugged at my dress and whimpered, while Bo spread toys around with a destructive efficiency that only comes from boredom. I was determined to finish the mission, but I needed to distract my children first. 

“Bo, do you want to do a puzzle?” I asked. 

Bo perked up immediately. “Maybe we tan do dah Tah-muff one!” 

So I got out the Thomas one — a Thomas-the-Tank-Engine-themed Ravensburger monstrosity that I abhor. It’s only sixty-four pieces, but about a dozen of those are “specialty” pieces that don’t actually interlock with the rest of the puzzle. (Thomas, James, Harold, etc.) Our go-to solution is taping the non-interlocking pieces in place. Notably, none of our other puzzles require such measures — which is probably why *this one* is Bo’s favorite. 

I brought the puzzle to the table, then went to examine the crib once more. I wanted something sturdy, but I suddenly realized that plywood was likely just a recipe for splinters. But cardboard would probably work, right?

I ducked into the mudroom to grab a large-ish box, then returned to the dining room to find Bo and Aza fighting.

It took only seconds to discern the reason for my kids’ scuffle. A handful of pieces sported saliva stains and bite marks, and several were missing their tabs… as if this puzzle could stand to lose any more functionality. 

“Aza!” I barked. 

My daughter turned to look at me, and as she did, she bit the tab off yet another piece. 

“Aza eat it!” Bo shrieked in dismay. “Mommy fix it!?” 

I groaned. This was the last thing I wanted on my agenda. Nevertheless, I said, “Yes, Bo, I will fix them for you.” 

I gathered up the injured pieces, then mixed up some epoxy and smeared it on in place of the tabs. (Later, I would slice off the excess material and replace the missing art with a careful application of nail polish.) So much for keeping the kids occupied. 

“Alright, back to business,” I announced, grabbing the packing tape en route to the nursery. I knew the kids would follow eventually.

When I got there, I thought for a few seconds. Was there an elegant way to accomplish my goal? I decided that, no, there was not. So, I slipped the cardboard in between the crib mattress and the wooden rails, then aggressively taped around the entire eyesore.  

It seemed like my “invention” would work — but there was only one way to find out. So I plopped Aza in her crib…