Is It True That The Guy In The Red Shirt Just Wants To Be A Better Dancer?

Right now my big, big boy is asleep in his Big Boy Cozy Bed in his Big Boy Room! For the second night in a row! This is just incredible to me. I'd been taking my time with this transition, partly because it seemed so intimidating and partly because I was pretty sure he wasn't going to be down with the change. So on Thursday night, I decided to do his evening story time in his new room, just to ease into things. He loved being in there, so I hesitantly asked if he wanted to sleep in there, too, and he was thrilled with the idea. So we gave it a whirl.

The whirl lasted about an hour-and-a-half, but it was a good whirl. The only problem was that he was so excited about his new spot that sleeping was put way on the back burner.

We had lots of this...

...and this...


...and some festive rolling around on the pillow padding I put down, but in the end, it was back in the crib to bring on the sleep. He went on to have a couple of really good rest times (no sleep, but he was much calmer and obedient to the "don't get out of bed 'til I come get you" rule), so we gave nighttime another go last night.

Here he is about 30 minutes after I put him down:


And here is a couple hours later when I checked on him:


Ah, the pitiful cuteness! Phil and I just stared from the door for a while. As much as I hated to disturb him, I just couldn't leave him with his face on the air vent. Poor thing looked around completely bewildered for several minutes after I layed him back in bed, then it took about 3 hours to get him back to sleep. I'm hoping for a little bit smoother night tonight, but I consider last night a total success. He wasn't interested in getting back in his crib, and after he settled back down, he slept until 8:30 without waking up or rolling across the room. I'm so proud of my big boy, but part of me wants to go in there, grab him out of that bed, and rock him in his nursery chair 'til morning.

Here's the latest belly picture - me and my Nibblet at 6 months.

Within the last few weeks, I've noticed people giving me wary glances and asking me if I'm OK as though my water might break right in front of them. Ladies at church are patting my arm and giving me understanding and pained smiles and saying things like, "Are you ready to pop?" and "So, how much longer is it?" certainly expecting the answer to be in days or weeks. I think I'm going to have a t-shirt made that says, "I have 3 months to go, so save your pity for the beginning of April!" :-)

Oh, and here's a funny story I forgot to tell in my last post. On my trip to see family last week, Andrew and I stopped into a McDonalds for some lunch. The cashier, who looked to be all of 17 years old, took a look at me and said the following: "You know you're not supposed to lift more than 10 pounds ... (pause for condescending smile and pointed look at Andrew on my hip) ... and I'm pretty sure he weighs more that 10 pounds." Ten pounds?! I've never heard of such. I wouldn't be able to take my groceries in from the car. Heck, I wouldn't be able to lift Rhianna's sweet new baby who tipped the hospital scales at over 11 pounds. But seriously, even if I'd walked up there with Phil on my hip I would have been a little surprised by the chastisement.