Back to bed

"Daddy!  I wan my stuff!  Daddy!  I wan my stuff!"

I stand outside Rowan's room, ear to the door, and determine by his tone and volume that this isn't a let-him-settle-himself-back-to-sleep moment.  The dude requires intervention.  I enter and there he is, miserably sitting on the edge of his tiny big-boy bed, feet dangling, pillow and blanket on the floor and Grover doll across the room, the victim of a mighty launch.

"I wan my stuff!" he says again as I walk to him.  With the hallway light peeking into the room, I see his tears, his snot.  He's so new to the bed that he doesn't realize he could technically leave the bed to retrieve his stuff.  The idea of getting out of bed hasn't entered his mind, and Julie and I plan to keep it that way as long as possible, ideally through at least the first half of adolescence.

I put his pillow back, and he collapses his head onto it, practically bouncing from all that exhausted downward force.  I get him Grover, who half-disappears into the crook of his arm.  Cover him up with the blanket and say, "Have a good sleep, buddy."

"Have a dood sneep too, Daddy," he replies, and I edge my way out the door.  When you say something nice to Rowan, he often says it back to you with "too" added, which has its most profound effect when you tell him you love him.