Two weeks ago, Sam tried to climb out of the cot, so we ordered a bed. The bed quickly became the touchstone for all our dreams of finally getting some sleep.
We had only seen it in a picture on the internet but nevertheless, we pinned our hopes on this bed; It attained god-like status, with the whole family intoning “The bed! The bed is coming! Your own big-boy-bed” to the mystified two-year-old.
Initially Sam just pointed to my bedroom and calmly but emphatically reiterated “My Bed”. No messing with this kid. But bit by bit, as we went on and on and on about the new bed, he started to become interested. By the time it arrived on Friday, he was fully invested in the idea. It’s the closest thing to brainwashing I’ve ever seen.
The assembly was completed yesterday, and the bed installed in the room. Which meant the cot had to go. I arrived into the small bedroom with a cup of tea for my husband, to find him unscrewing the base of the cot. The sides were already detached and leaning against the wall. I burst into tears. My husband looked up, perplexed.
“Don’t you feel emotional about this?”
He just smiled in bemusement.
“Men” I said
“Women” he thought (I’m guessing)
A trio of babies whiled away their early years in this cot, often refusing to sleep, or standing, yelling to be picked up, or casually, so carefully and casually, ripping the wallpaper off the wall. But also sleeping peacefully too; sometimes being picture-book-babies.
No more cot means there is no longer a baby in our house; we knew that anyway, but this seems like the first tangible sign. A first sign that conversely has a feeling of finality. My baby is not a baby, and there’s no-one else coming up behind.
Having said that, all emotional ties and lingering fondness for the cot will be forgotten in a heartbeat if the bed does the trick and gets him to sleep. What cot?