A few weeks ago my husband and I bought a new bed, one of those memory foam beds, a knock-off of the tempurpedic brand. This bed is, perhaps, the second best purchase I have ever made (the first being an electric clothes dryer we bought for $10 that still runs like a top thirteen years later.)
I love my new bed. It enables me to sleep for as long as my bladder (wearied and battle-scarred from three pregnancies) will allow. I can just lie there in bed, drift off to sleep, and not wake up for six straight hours.
Our old bed is still in the corner of our room, waiting for us to move it to my son’s room. However, we’re not exactly sure what to do with his old bed. So our old bed is just bidding its time in our room patiently until we get our act together.
Because we have a surplus of sleeping places, our oldest daughter Trinity has started waking up in the middle of the night, coming into my bedroom, and finishing out the night in the old bed. It’s not a huge deal, but occasionally I’ll wake up (nicely rested, might I add) and discover multiple children with their stuffed animal entourage in my room.
My oldest daughter sleeps with her arms held straight above her head, as if she fell into a deep slumber while in the middle of doing the Wave. And tonight, when my husband caught Trinity sleeping in our room, only ninety minutes after tucking her into her own bed, he saw clutched in her outstretched hand a note. It read:
I simply can’t sleep
in my own room.
I wish I could.
So now I am torn on whether I should be worried that Trinity is never going to sleep in her own room again or proud because she justified moving to my room with a cute and nicely worded note.
Maybe I should just go back to bed and think about it later.