There are plenty of significant stages in a life: changes, decisions, and lifestyle choices – all things that are the make-up of who we are. I know, this sounds like a heavy topic, especially for a Monday, but it is that kind of day; maybe because my Sunday was spent with my two nieces and little nephew. My brother and his wife had a family brunch yesterday and I got to hang out with the kids. The great thing about being an aunt is that you have your allotted visiting hours where you become a human trampoline, sit through spur-of-the-moment plays performed from on top of the coffee table, become the subject of scribbled paintings with rainbows, butterflies, flowers and a big bright yellow sun surrounding you, and play with Dora the Explorer toys, but you can give the kids back to their rightful owners at the end of the day – hyper and filthy.
The kids change every time I see them, even if it has only been a week. It is both awesome and scary to watch. Laura, who just turned four, can write the names of everyone in the family and made place cards for the table. Michael, at only eleven months, runs around the house and is not far behind both sisters when he takes a stab at climbing the stairs. But it was Fiona, the two-year-old, who showed the most change yesterday.
I opened their front door, and as Fiona came running at me with a hug, she exclaimed in a very proud voice, “I got a big girl’s bed!” Before I could grab a (much needed) coffee from the kitchen, the two girls and I were on our way upstairs to Fiona’s room. Close to the ground, with a bed rail for safety, there was her new bed, gleaming almost as much as Fiona, who stood beside it, shoulders back, proud as could be.
Next, I was lead by the hand into Laura’s room, where I was faced with a loft style bunk bed, complete with a ladder (a ladder!) to get up to the mattress. Laura giggled with excitement, grabbed onto the ladder and started to climb. Out of habit, I stood behind her, hands shadowed around her body, ready for a fall. But up Laura went and I had to accept that this girl – who now comes up to well past my belly button when she stands in front of me – has taken the leap, has made the change from toddler to a competent, sturdy little girl. For reassurance, I peeked into Michael’s room next, and was relieved to see that his baby crib was still in use. I don’t think I could have handled three bed changes in one morning.
I was unusually quiet through brunch, looking back and forth from niece to nephew to other niece, wondering when the hell they grew up without me noticing.
Beds aren’t usually associated with philosophical thinking, at least not for me. At least not until yesterday. But it did get me thinking: the type of bed we have goes hand-in-hand with the stage of life we are at, even when we are well past our childhood. There is a natural progression of bed styles with the natural human progression.
We are born and we spend three months in an infant’s crib at the side of our parents’ bed. We start moving a little too much on our own and are put in a bigger crib, like Michael’s, where we can pull ourselves up with the help of the bars. We turn two or three and the cage disappears; we get a “big kids bed” like Fiona’s, with a bed rail for the first little while, until we get used to the blissful openness. Lucky kids get the privilege of a cool bunk bed or loft bed, like Laura’s, and when we reach our teens, we graduate to a day bed, and the last stage of young adulthood is spent in that terribly uncomfortable, but perfectly multi-purpose futon.
Ah, the futon. The futon that followed us through college to our first apartment; the futon that acted as a best friend: the one piece of furniture that lasted through move after move, apartment after apartment, bedroom after living room after bedroom. Childhood years bring multiple changes in beds for sure, but I think the most significant jump in one’s stage of maturation is leaving the futon behind.
I got married last summer, and my back has never felt better; I am sleeping better than I ever have (and not because my relationship is boring). We both came into the relationship with our trusty, worn-out futons, and soon realized that if we were going to make this “forever” thing work, the futons had to go. Not quite ready to part with them, our storage locker is at maximum capacity, but we both know that, despite the sentimental attachments we’ve made with our futons, we never want to spend a restless night on them again.
We looked through tons of mattresses from Cymax, and when the queen arrived, it was right then and there when I realized: I am an adult. I am leaving my childhood, my dorm life, my twenties behind, and I am a real live, well-rested adult.
My nieces and nephew will grow and their beds will change along with them, and although I hope to mature in the psychological sense, I’m 5 foot 3 inches with no hope of vertical growth, so on my luscious queen-sized mattress I will stay, happily and comfortably. Forever, even.
