The No-Nap Artist

Edie never used to leave her room on her own volition after waking up.  First, it was the whole legs-don't-work-because-I'm-an-infant thing.  Then it was because she just wasn't a crib climber.  Keeping her from crib climbing was aided by the fact that she sleeps in a sack (think sleeping bag with arm straps / Maggie Simpson).  After moving into a big kid bed, she soon learned to unzip her sleep sack and get out of it, but for some reason, this just led to her playing pantless in bed for awhile, and later playing in her own room.  But always calling out for me to come get here when she was ready to be up and about.

But, about two weeks ago, something finally clicked, and she realized that there was nothing stopping her from leaving her room whenever she wanted.  There was also nothing stopping her from doing it in as dramatic a fashion as possible.  Her method involves deftly removing the sack, climbing out of her bed - all quiet enough that it cannot be picked up on the baby monitor - creeping to her door, and then... flinging the door open and tearing down the hallway as fast as her little legs and pumping arms can take her.  No destination.  All journey.

Last week, I heard Edie open her door while I was closed in my room sewing.  A second later she opened my door to look for me, but I didn't turn around, wanting to see what her next move would be.  Was it "Hi, Mama!"?  Nope. She simply saw me, then shut the door again, and proceeded to do whatever toddler risky business she saw fit.

Then yesterday, she hit the motherload for alone time mayhem.  Will and I were gardening in the backyard - with the baby monitor turned all the way up, mind you.  At some point, I looked up to see Edie through the glass door.  First, she smiled.  But that faded into a grimace as she held up her hands and arms which were both covered in a thick layer of bright blue.  My smile faded then too.  I tossed her to her dad and ran inside to inspect the damage.  Aha! She found a brand new bottle of acrylic paint not too far from her chalkboard easel which, in an unfortunate coincidence, had a paintbrush and cup of water in its holder from some innocent water painting she'd been up to earlier.  Edie managed to unscrew the lid, remove the tiny protective seal, which tried in vain to prevent such tragedies, and begin to paint. And paint, and paint.  She must have been at this whole process for a good half hour before she became annoyed at her dirty hands, forcing her to seek help from people tall enough to reach the sink.  Happily, the carnage was quite contained relative to the catastrophe potential. Our duvets will bear the marks of her work, as will our bathroom door.  But the wood floors were saved, and so was about 20% of my new paint.  And I will work on finding a new hiding spot for liquid-y craft goods, and I vow never to let her see me use the hot glue gun again.