As I embarked on the task of clearing out the lower bunk bed, I didn’t realize the emotional weight it would carry. The space had long been a storage area for stuffed animals belonging to my older kids, and I found myself sifting through a mix of plush toys and remnants of childhood clutter—Legos, plastic food items, and toy soldiers that I discreetly disposed of when no one was looking.
After some time, I managed to restore the bed to its former glory. I donated several stuffed animals and dressed the bed with fresh sheets. Lacking another twin comforter, I decided to use an old quilt crafted by my grandmother, featuring faded pink whales. I retrieved my little one’s pillows adorned with cartoon characters, arranging his plush companions—hedgehogs, Daniel Tiger, O the Owl, and Winnie the Pooh—around him.
“Look, Max!” I exclaimed. “Your bed is ready! You can sleep here tonight!”
“Yay!” he cheered, as his older siblings gathered around to celebrate the prospect of him sleeping in the bottom bunk.
“I got the little one all set for his first night in the boys’ room,” I told my partner when he returned home.
“You’re fantastic,” he replied with admiration.
As bedtime approached, I lay down next to Max, repeatedly shushing his brothers until they finally quieted down. After a brief nursing session, he fell asleep, allowing me to sneak out of the softly lit room, still unaware of the emotional shift occurring.
“Oh wow, we can finally enjoy some privacy in here,” my partner remarked to the empty master bedroom.
While I relished the newfound intimacy, a pang of sadness hit me. My little one was no longer sleeping beside me. He was my last child, and with this transition, I felt the end of an era. I would no longer wake to the warmth of his small body curled against me, nor would I be roused by his nighttime fears. That chapter had closed.
“But the little one—” I started to say.
“He’ll be back in half an hour, wanting you,” he dismissed.
“True,” I conceded, and we locked the door, engaging in adult activities while we could.
To my surprise, Max slept soundly through the night—something he repeated the next evening. However, on the third night, he resisted the idea of sleeping alone. Heartbroken, I encouraged him to try it out, reassuring him he could always come to find me if he felt scared.
“Okay, mama,” he replied, quickly drifting off.
I had hoped he’d sneak in during the night, bringing along a stuffed animal to snuggle with. I envisioned him curling up against me, just as his older brothers occasionally did. I thought I had more time; I believed we were merely transitioning, not parting ways.
Indeed, I appreciate the privacy I now have. My bedroom is my sanctuary once more, a space where I can listen to music, watch shows, and enjoy intimate moments without interruption. We had co-slept for so long, navigating around each other in ways I’d rather not discuss. Now, we could reclaim our space as a couple.
Yet, the bed felt overwhelmingly spacious. It was more than just a bed; it was a dual arrangement of a twin sidecar attached to a queen, meant for a family that once shared it. Certainly, our six-year-old had crept in a few times, but he was no longer the soft, cuddly baby I had grown accustomed to. I lay next to my partner, feeling the vast emptiness of the mattress. This is how it will be from now on, I thought—a gradual decline in need, a slow ebbing away of dependence.
I understand this is how it should be; I recognize that this is the essence of parenting—watching them grow and cheering them on. Parenthood is a delicate waltz of letting go. In a bittersweet gesture, I reclaimed one of my childhood teddy bears from the boys. They wouldn’t notice. I cuddled it as I drifted off to sleep, embracing both the memory of my baby and the anticipation of the boy he is becoming.
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In summary, the transition of my child to a new bed has been a profound experience filled with both joy and melancholy. While I cherish the privacy and intimacy I now have with my partner, I also mourn the closeness of those early years. As I navigate this new phase, I hold onto both the memories of my baby and the excitement of watching him grow.