After three nights of fighting with The Kid, she finally slept through the night in her Big Girl Bed. Transitioning to the bed has been rough. We took all of the recommended steps: talking it up, making everything special, building a wall around the bed for security.
Yesterday, after a tumultuous Friday night where she didn’t get to sleep until after 9:30, no nap and racking up about 40 miles on her legs running around the house and yard, The Kid threw The Wife out of her room before the last song and fell asleep.
We have been working a sleep chart. She gets a dot with every good night of sleep. After five dots, she gets ice cream. She cashed in her first set of dots on Friday with a trip to Chuckleberries, a serve yourself froyo stand in Liverpool. When she does not get a dot, we also ban her from the library of Sesame Street and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on the DVR.
I don’t understand how a child rejects things like pizza and candy but willingly drinks Starbucks iced coffee. Yet, whenever I have iced coffee she has iced coffee. The Kid and I have taken to private daddy-daughter trips to Starbucks. I get my giant iced coffee. She gets her coffee, a tall cold cup with milk and just enough iced coffee to turn the milk brown. She curls up on one of the leather chairs with that and a slice of gluten-free cinnamon bread and goes to town. It’s some us time.
What we fear is that this stretch signals the end of naps. The Kid’s nap time means I get nap time or, at the very least, quiet time.
The Kid also made the ride to Wegmans today, where she was pretty well behaved for a three-year-old. All it takes is the promise of the train that runs through the bulk foods section of the store.