This morning, I put Cole in his room, in his crib. I handed him his favorite musical pink seahorse, which (among other things) plays a charming, if somewhat aquatic-sounding, rendition of Ode to Joy. I said, "Mama will be back soon" and I carefully shut the door.
I finished my shower about 15 minutes later. Cole had a brand-new bruise on his forehead and a rapidly-swelling bump under one eye. He had a truck under one arm and a dirty sock in his mouth. He spit the sock out, told me "bye bye," and, when that failed to get the desired response, tried "night night."
He wasn't in his crib. He wasn't even in his room.
Houston, we have a problem.