A bed is a wonderful thing, especially when there's no toddler in it. For three weeks now, my bed has been blissfully free of cold little toes tucked under my tummy. No arms flung over my neck in the middle of the night, no hard little heads crashing into my face and breathing nose to nose.
Dang, I miss him. It was kinda cuddly, you know?
Now, to cuddle, I have to scale the heights of his platform bed, a big wooden contraption with a slide and a ladder. If you are skinny and agile, you can actually fit on both. If you are pregnant and clumsy, you cannot.
This meant nothing to Minitaur, shown above assembling the thing. I don't trust anything a toddler can assemble, especially if it's from Ikea. I am not thinking this is a bed that can accommodate a stiff-limbed, middle-aged woman and her swollen uterus.
The bed wasn't happy either, and creaked and complained whenever I tried to ease myself up or down, which was really more like cramming a loaf of bread through a keyhole. Sure, it can be done, but you're not going to recognize the bread afterward. That's what I felt like -- like I'd left some of my mushier parts squeezed onto the floor somewhere.
But this is the bed he begged us for and that he helped build. He chose spaceship-themed sheets for it and stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on the wall by his pillow. The $500 all this cost didn't mean anything to him either.
What means something: knowing he can still fall asleep in his Mommy's arms, and screaming for her in the middle of the night when he wakes up alone.
What it means to me: I am practicing losing sleep for when our newborn comes. I am happier than ever to have my hubby home from his business trip, so he can take over sleep patrol. I am patiently waiting for my son to go to college so Plosh and I can get the entire house to ourselves.
Dang, I'll miss him.
And I probably won't sleep much then either.