Feb. 25, 2018
I never really thought about it while I was clearing out the lower bunk bed. That space had been a makeshift home for my youngest’s older siblings’ stuffed animals for ages. Digging through the sea of plush toys, I found remnants of little boy mess: scattered Legos, pretend food, and plastic soldiers that I discreetly tossed aside when no one was watching.
After a bit of effort, I finally got the bed cleaned up. I decided to donate some of the stuffed animals and put fresh sheets on the mattress. Lacking a second twin comforter, I retrieved an old quilt that my grandmother had gifted me, the one adorned with pink whales and starting to fray. I took over my child’s two favorite pillows, each with a Scooby Doo and Paw Patrol cover, and arranged his collection of stuffed friends: hedgehogs, Daniel Tiger, O the Owl, and Winnie the Pooh.
“Look, Sam!” I exclaimed. “I made your bed! You can sleep in it tonight!”
“Yay!” he cheered, while his older brothers gathered around, excited about the prospect of him sleeping on the bottom bunk.
“I got the little one all hyped up for bedtime in the boys’ room,” I told my partner when he returned from work.
“You’re incredible,” he responded with admiration.
When bedtime arrived, I lay down beside Sam. I had to shush his brothers several times before they finally settled down. After some nursing, Sam quickly fell asleep. I gently rolled over and slipped out of the softly lit room, still not considering the significance of the moment.
“Oh wow, we can finally enjoy some privacy in here,” my partner mused in our now-empty master bedroom.
As much as I welcomed the quiet, a wave of sadness washed over me. My baby was in his own bed. Not just any baby—Sam is my youngest. There won’t be another. I won’t wake up to the sweet scent of a small child nestled against me or have him snuggle up on the couch first thing in the morning. The days of being abruptly awakened by his nightmares are over. We’ve closed that chapter. He no longer needs my presence at night.
“But the baby—” I started.
“He’ll be in here in a bit, begging for you,” he laughed dismissively.
“You’re probably right,” I conceded. We locked the door and took advantage of our newfound freedom.
Yet, my partner was mistaken. That first night, Sam slept through until morning, waking up confused about my absence. The second night was the same. By the third night, however, he resisted returning to his bed. I had to gently encourage him, my heart aching, that he could always come find me if he woke up scared. “Just give it a try, sweetheart,” I coaxed. “If you get frightened, just come to me.”
“Okay, mama,” he replied and promptly fell asleep.
I had secretly hoped he’d wander in, clutching a stuffed hedgehog, snuggling against me as he slept. Our older boys still do this sometimes at ages six and eight. I thought I had more time; this felt like a transition, not a final goodbye.
Yes, I appreciate the privacy. I cherish having my bedroom back for loud conversations, music, and my beloved shows like The X-Files. Honestly, I especially value the freedom to be intimate in our own space again. We’ve co-slept for so long, making many adjustments that I’d prefer not to elaborate on right now. But now, we could reclaim our space.
Yet, the bed feels vast and empty. It’s not just one mattress; it’s a twin sidecarred to a queen, designed for little ones coming and going. But it seems those days are over. Our six-year-old has slipped in a few times, but he’s all limbs and angles, far removed from the soft cuddles of my now four-year-old. My partner and I lay together on the queen, crammed to one side of this expansive, empty mattress. As I lie there, I realize this is our new reality. This is how things will be from now on: a slow drift away from being needed, a constant feeling of ebbing away, always feeling left behind.
I know this is how it should be; it’s what I signed up for. This is the nature of parenthood: watching children grow and cheering them on. It’s a bittersweet dance of learning to let go. So, I sneak one of my childhood teddy bears back from the boys. They’ll never notice. I hold it close as I drift off to sleep. I will miss my baby, but I also look forward to my growing boy. I find that I can embrace both feelings in my heart simultaneously.
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