A few weeks ago we fell victim to a rookie mistake in parental judgment. I chalk it up to fatigue but maybe deep down inside, I was subconsciously pulling off the proverbial band aid and letting go of my last baby’s babyness. (No, that is not a word but deal with it, huh?)
Kate had begun climbing out of her crib so, exhibiting our seemingly endless supply of parental wisdom, we decided that it was time to set up her big girl bed. Our thought process on this one was simple…at least if she falls out of her bed the drop isn’t as far as a fall from the top of the crib. I know, we’re a couple of geniuses.
Mostly, I felt the urge to purge the crib from our house once and for all. Though its not technically purged, it has been vanquished to the attic for the remainder of its life.
It served us well, that inherited crib. One of my dearest friends passed that Jenny Lind onto us when Gwen was just a bun in the oven. Before either of our girls was even a glint in my eye, her two beautiful girls slept in it. Let’s pause for a moment and reflect upon the sheer number of babies who began their sleeping careers that crib.
Alas, there comes a time when no
prison cell crib can hold one of our babies. Gwen was a pro at scaling the sides of the crib by 16 months and decided that she would sleep in nothing but a “big girl bed” by the time she was 18 months old.
Kate, being the youngest, enjoyed the longest run in her baby prison. She made it to the ripe old age of 24 and 1/2 months. I’ve got her beat. I’m willing to bet that I slept in a crib longer than anyone that reads this post. Care to wager? I slept in a crib until I was about 7 years old. Weird, huh?
I had a bed. A nice twin sized bed that matched my sister’s. We even shared a bedroom… until my parents sold our house, moved us all to upstate New York and into our tiny summer house. That is where I was forced to re-enter the crib. I was in Kindergarten. The summer house was a pit stop while my parents renovated our farm house, so the crib was my “crib” for a couple of years. But I digress….
Since Kate had begun scaling the
prison crib walls, I felt that she was emitting a cry for help. After my own unfortunate and lengthy crib-dwelling years, I wanted to get her into a bed before she ended up all weird and anti-social, like me.
We pulled the bed out of the attic and set it up right next to Gwen’s. If we were first time parents that night would have been tragic but this is our third go at helping a little kid transition into a big kid bed.
Sometime around 11:00 p.m., a time now defined as our new “wee hours” (as in 11:00 p.m. is the new 3:00 a.m.), we heard a dull thud followed by some muffled crying. Don’t worry the floor is covered in cushy, plush carpeting, and we didn’t start laughing until after we determined that she was alright. Sure, she was technically wedged between the bed and the dresser a little but she suffered no injuries. At most she probably experienced the sensation of falling followed by that weird, where the hell am I? state of confusion. Kind of like that time in college when you went on a bender and woke up in someone’s apartment with the Pillsbury Dough Boy costume hanging from the ceiling…what? Oh, that didn’t happen to you?
The next day I picked up some bed rails. She hasn’t fallen out again, but did initially have some trouble understanding that she is supposed to sleep on the bed, not next to it.