We tried. Really.
At 7 p.m. the boy was falling asleep, and we got him successfully lying in his crib with his favorite giraffe. We crept out of his room. Then I made Shea creep back in to make sure that the baby monitors work. Because God forbid the boy make a squeak and I not hear it.
We high-fived. We wrote celebratory Facebook status updates. I settled in to study for my grad school final, and Shea started doing the dishes.
By 8 p.m. the wail started to come through the baby monitor. And after a few minutes of self-restraint, he was once again in the living room. We played. Laughed in the mirror. Danced to Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. Ate his evening meal and was rocked to sleep.
At 11 p.m., we tried the crib again. Success! More high-fives. I tempted fate and pumped assuming the boy was asleep for the night.
At midnight, we went to bed. Figured we could fall asleep cuddling for the first time in four months (probably longer. Pregnant cuddling is annoying).
12:40 p.m. Baby is back in our bed, curled on his side to get close to my body. Out cold and happy. Accept defeat.
Baby 1, Parents 0.