I’ve been pretty vocal about my plans to keep Peanut in a crib forever, or at least until the age of sixteen. A crib is confining, and does not allow my 3 year old to come “visit” on a whim. Plus, we’d never had an argument, an attempt to escape, a complaint. I have friends whose children were jumping from cribs at eighteen months. Not Peanut. It’s basically worked for us, pretty seamlessly.
A few days ago I was putting Peanut to bed after bath, the usual routine. We’d returned only an hour or so earlier from a dinner-time play-date at a friend’s home. As Peanut lay down in her crib, she stroked the bars. “A has a big girl bed,” she said, “L too”. “I have a baby bed,” she sighed, sadly. “I want to sleep in a big girl bed.” I’m not sure how, or when she realized that she was one of the only ones left in a crib. She’d seen her friend’s beds on countless occasions, never commenting, never wondering, never questioning. In fact, she’d often explained, “my bed is called a crib”. That was her normal.
But last week, she decided it was time. And, I suppose, it is.
It was a moment. A moment when Peanut realized she’s ready for the next stage, even if I’m not entirely.
I’m guessing this won’t be the last time. I know this won’t be the last time.
That’s the reality of sleep.
And of parenthood.