Where should baby sleep now?

If you have a recalled Stork Craft crib, or you're worried generally about a drop-side crib of any make, where should baby sleep while you sort this out?

I asked Valerie Lee, executive director of the Infant and Toddler Safety Association, whether it's safe to put a crib mattress on the floor and simply not use the frame in the intervening time.

"No," said Lee. "A young baby could roll off. If it's against something they could get trapped and suffocate. If it's an older child they can move around. We can not recommend that that's a safe thing to do."

"The only safe place to put a baby or small toddler down is in a crib that meets standards and is in good condition," she said.

But that doesn't necessarily mean you need a new crib today, or even that your baby won't be safe in the crib you own for some time to come.

Lee advised parents to look carefully at the recall details of the Health Canada recall website.

Before throwing out a crib just because it's has a drop-down side, note that the recall only applies to Stork Craft drop-side cribs (some bearing a Fischer-Price logo) with plastic hardware, said Lee.

If the hardware is metal it is not being recalled.

"If parents have one of these cribs but the hardware is in good condition, it is perfectly safe to use while you wait for the repair kit," said Lee.

"Just check it every time you put the baby in the crib and order the repair kit right away."

To do that, you need to call Stork Craft's toll-free line, (1-877-274-0277), which, unsurprisingly, is ringing busy.

In a letter posted to customers at the company’s blog (storkcraft.blogspot.com), Stork Craft manager Adam Segal said the company is currently "working through the initial surge of inquiries and requests at the moment" and their website is experiencing heavy traffic.

They suggest emailing parts@storkcraft.com with the following information, all of which can be found on the bottom right corner of the mattress baseboard: model number of the crib, date of manufacture and country of manufacture. The company also asks parents to include complete shipping information in order to receive a free repair kit that will modify the cribs so the sides are fixed.You can also get more information by checking the company's twitter feed.

If your child is just about ready for a big-kid bed, you may be thinking of making the switch.

There's no precise recommended age, but Health Canada says your child should be at least two. Readiness depends on a number of factors including size of the child compared to the side of the crib, as well as the child's nature. Yours could be the type of child who is an active explorer, as opposed to one who will call for you in the morning before leaving the bed, explains Lee.

These factors, as well as whether or not your child has figured out how to climb or jump out of the crib, should be weighed in the decision.

What about sleeping with you?

The "family bed" is about as politically charged here as Roe V. Wade. Many families don't use cribs at all. I'm setting aside the debate on the merits and safety issues associated with co-sleeping for today and just relaying the official safety information. Please feel welcome share your thoughts in the comments below.

A tale of two tantrums

It's a good thing my toddler looks like this...

otherwise he would be FOR SALE!!!

On Saturday I took my boys for a walk down to Bloor Street, where the local shops and bakeries are, and where I would endeavour to pick up groceries, flowers, etc., for a dinner party.

I left the house with Cameron, 5.5, Alister, 1.5, and a stroller that is — I would learn — a complete affront to my younger child's dignity. It was a lovely day, and naturally, Alister wanted to walk. I wanted him to walk for at least a little while, too, so he could blow off some steam. He, however, didn't want to miss a single driveway, lawn or retaining wall on the way to the village. We were progressing at a rate of about a block per half hour, the clock was ticking and, I knew, he was quickly approaching expiry.

Cameron and I cajoled, chased and coerced Alister in the right direction — me occasionally swooping him up with tickles to distract him while nudging us along a few houses. When we hit Bloor, though, and my toddler alternated pressing his face into every carpet-store and bakery window with careening toward traffic, I decided he had to go into the stroller for an agonizing two blocks until we reached Bread and Roses cafe for some sort of food refuel.

He had one of those tantrums, like from sitcom television...? You know, the kind with the back arching and total refusal to lower his bum into the stroller. He wailed. He screamed. He yelled "Mommy!" Huge crocodile tears poured down his face as I repeatedly tried to string each of his legs into the stroller. I wrangled him into the straps, he pushed up against them. Strangers stared. Mothers looked on sympathetically. Several people looked as though they might speed dial the Children's Aid Society. I laughed and made light of it because it was the only way to retain some element of dignity. Alister kept up some yoga-worthy back bridge the whole time just to make the point that he wasn't REALLY sitting in the stroller.

We got to the bakery, and luckily, ran into a friend and his son out front, which allowed us to tag-team order. I food-bribed Alister with half of a huge cinnamon bun. (Not a high moment in my parenting career.) He calmed down and smiled "more?" as he finished each bite.

I needed to return something at Chapters. So we headed there and he played contentedly at the Thomas the Train table while Cameron and I read books. Eventually, though, with nap-time approaching, I needed to wrangle him back downstairs, do the return and jet.

Of course he didn't understand that the Thomas train in his little fist belonged to the store and that his own was waiting at home. Naturally, he wanted to go back up the down escalator. OBVIOUSLY, he wouldn't go back in the stroller.

So about those b*stards that put all the brightly-coloured, cello-wrapped, holiday-theme crap on a table right at toddler eyeball level while you're waiting in line for a cashier... I think an afternoon with a set of sugar-high triplet toddler boys throwing tantrums in a toy store would be appropriate karmic payback, don't you?

Carrying around a satisfyingly crinkly, spring-themed lollipop the size of his face was amusement enough while the cashier waited for a manager to sign off on my return. When I pried it from his hands and started wrestling Alister back in the stroller, he put up such an ultimate-fighting performance that nice people were coming up and saying to me, "Do you need a hand?"

I got him strapped in and out the door, Cameron patiently tagging along beside.

But my white-trash parenting adventure didn't end there. Not sure what this says about how we've been feeding him, but there's a Pizza Pizza on the corner next to the Chapters. As we passed it, my hollaring toddler recognized the logo and shop and started saying, "Pizza? Pizza?"

Realizing this whole thing might have been related to the small breakfast he had, I peered into the stroller and said, "Is that what you want? Is that what this is about? Because if you want a piece of pizza, you can have one." Five minutes later, with a small square of pepperoni pizza acquired (along with a huge stack of napkins) and quartered, we were on our way back home, happy as can be, both boys munching away.

The moral of the story, moms and dads?

Don't forget the snacks.

Classified material

Lying in bed the other night, I was mentally composing a Craigslist ad for my 16-month-old son:

"V. attractive male toddler, excellent health, to good home. Best offer."

or

"Cute, blond baby boy, 16 mo., as-is condition."

A perfect storm of emerging molars, a wretched cold/cough, over-tiredness and toddler determination have been conspiring to keep us up around the clock, and the other night we were in the eye of the hurricane. Nothing was right in Alister's world. He cried at bedtime, he woke numerous times throughout the night, he rose at 5:30 a.m. Grumpy.

He wasn't sick enough to be lethargic, luckily. However, that meant his normal zeal for scaling things and moving furniture was intact, only he was a whining, chair-throwing brute instead of his normal, adventurous but good-natured self.

Yesterday morning, with my mom on her way from Victoria, I feared that I'd have a toddler scaling my leg her entire visit. But happily, he went to her right away, and turned on the Grandma charm with his little baby-talk stories, dancing and smiles.

Maybe the tooth is through. Maybe his congestion is clearing. Maybe, just maybe, the sleep gods will start to smile upon us.

My little Houdini

I have a 14-month-old who doesn't want to do anything that isn't a risk to life or property.

Set him down beside his stroller, Alister takes off giggling down the block. Leave the gate unlatched while you run upstairs to raid the change dish, he's teetering on the landing. Turn your back for a second, and he's on a step stool — his arm extended to the farthest edge of his reach and one foot half off the edge of the stool — endeavouring to retrieve a framed poster from the wall.

He breaks wine glasses. He has opened the oven door (yes, we need a lock for the stove!). He has no regard for traffic. He cares barely a whit for toys, but loves electric toothbrushes, remote controls and our cordless phone (if he pushes the right buttons, a nice lady comes on the line and says, "You must dial one or zero before the number..."). He has ruined one Blackberry and very nearly threw another in the bathtub.

He climbs onto the back of chairs, steps down, claps for himself, repeats. Sometimes he falls off things. Hard-earned lesson that keeps him on the floor for a while, you might think? No, he just uses the experience to hone is object-scaling skills.

This would all be fine, apart from the fact that we have other things to do than to stand within an arm's reach of our toddler. We joke that we need an extra adult in the house just to spot Alister in his quest for precipices and toxic substances.

Sometimes we allow him to make messes and waste things (or electricity — the fridge door is just full of interesting bottles and jars!) just because it will occupy him for, say, one minute. My older child, Cameron, wanted me to read him Batman book the other day, so we sat on a chair in the kitchen, where I could ensure that Alister didn't touch the stove where dinner was cooking. Alister attacked the Saran wrap drawer, pulling apart two boxes of sandwich bags and about 10 feet of wax paper. But that wax paper got me to the part where Batman escorted Joker to the squad car, so it seemed worth it. When Alister was unusually quiet in our ensuite bathroom this morning, my investigation revealed the tiny cost of peace.  "This uninterrupted dressing time was brought to you by... a couple of wasted Chapsticks," I told to my husband.

I know that this is a story that will sound familiar to any parent of an active baby or toddler. And I try to remind myself that it sucks to be two feet tall (imagine, a whole world of knee caps and counters you can't see over). Still, as a busy mom of two with not a lot of extra patience, it's sometimes hard for me to parent him in a way that conceals the fact that I think he's a huge pain in the bum (a cute, lovable pain in the bum, but a pain in the bum, nonetheless).

On the flip side, his adventurous also means he can play with his brother, who's four years older. His physical nature helps him bridge the age gap. He's tough enough to wrestle bigger kids and loves the mayhem of a crazy playdate.

And he's my last baby, and that's what I remind myself when a bowl of Cheerios is hurtling past my head.