The big bed
Given that DD broke all ties with her cot, with the help of tactical screaming, vomiting and falling out of it, at just 18 months old, DS has come late to the Big Bed party. To date he’s showed no desire to leave his cot – and I, as a mum who values her sleep, have also showed no desire to move him out of it.
But needs must – and when he turned three I realised if I didn’t get him out of the cot soon, I’d be paying for it in terms of therapy when he turned 18 (“Doctor, when I shut my eyes, I see bars!”) – so I had a Flexa bed delivered to his room on his birthday.
DS’s joy knows no bounds. “Look at my big-boy bed!” he squealed, turning ecstatic somersaults on it.
My joy, however, knew several bounds, the most important one being that DS is now free-range and able to venture into our room at whatever time he likes.
Whereas I used to ignore him when he woke up and hence get an extra hour in bed (we’re talking 6am to 7am on a weekend here), I now get woken before 6am by the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps and a little boy clambering awkwardly onto my tummy.
It wouldn’t matter if he then fell asleep in my arms, but the dawn requests vary from “Read me a story!” to “I want breakfast!” and “Play with me!” which, honest to god, at 5.45am in the school holidays, is not welcome.
A week on, that cot is looking awfully attractive. I’ll deal with the shrink bills another decade.