I’m doing it. I’m doing it. Tonight, he’s sleeping in his own room. No need to look at me like that.
The baby monitor came a couple of days ago, and his room is warm enough, and there’s really no reason to put it off any longer. We had a monitor trial run this afternoon as we put him in his room for an afternoon nap. Sure enough, I could hear him screaming his little face off as though he were right there in front of me. Top quality, BT. Top quality.
In case you were wondering, the temperature gauge is a worrywart. It’s definitely not Too Warm in his room. (I’m surprised they didn’t go for the urgency of all-caps and an exclamation mark. Perhaps I would’ve listened if it were TOO WARM!)
We discovered, after extensive research, that the monitor plays various kinds of tinkly music, can be used as a walkie talkie and does a superlative Darth Vader impression. Between this and the song I’ve composed to the tune of The Imperial March (The Imperial Henry; performances on request), this baby will be turning to the dark side of the force any day now.
It’s also possible to sing along to the music from the other room, but on this evidence – sorry Timothy – that’s something that should never be done again. We’d like to apologise to Mr Pachelbel for any offence caused.
He’s a cracking sleeper (at night, at least), but we’ll see what an unfamiliar room, an earlier bedtime and a very angry would-be tooth will do to his winning streak. If anyone has opinions on controlled crying, speak now or forever hold your peace. (I say ‘controlled crying’ all confidently like I have the heart to listen to him for longer than thirty seconds. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.)