Toddler Harbat has been telling me recently, when she’s feeling especially happy, “You’re my friend.” I’m putting all these in the bank for the times when she’s a teenager and yells, “I HATE YOU!” My wife thinks it won’t come to that, but I can see that TH’s outspokenness and short fuse come from my side of the family. Along with good traits too.
The time is fast approaching when TH needs to transition to a real bed. She’s still in her crib, which has so far held up to jumping, climbing, donkey-kicking, and other high-intensity shenanigans. But I’ve taken apart and assembled this crib twice and each time I notice the screws are pulling out a bit more. “The next time this comes apart will probably be the last,” I told my wife. I’m still hoping that happens after TH moves to a new bed and not in the middle of a seismic event.
This transition to a new bed is more than just a change in altitude, it’s also a big step for freedom. Which won’t be such a good thing when she’s decided that five AM is a dandy time to get up and stomp down the hall. Her crib is now the last refuge, the one place from which there isn’t likely to be damage or escape. Once she is in a bed, there is theoretically nothing stopping her from getting up in the middle of the night, stumbling to the kitchen, turning on all the burners, and pulling the stepstool to the counter so she can play mumblety-peg with our carving knives. These are the things I think about.
Although. Maybe when compared with options like a bunk bed with a hair-trigger trap door, a hammock made from piano wire, and a hyperbaric sleep chamber, a normal child’s bed won’t seem as dangerous. Oh good. I feel so much better now.