Over the weekend husband Hodge took down the last cot side on Splodge’s cot bed, thus turning it into a big boy bed. After he did it I stood and looked at the bed and thought about the tiny baby we’d brought home from hospital, now nearly a metre tall and in his grown up bed.
Since my two spinal operations this year I’ve not been able to lift him in and out of his cot. In May we tried and converted the cot bed into a bed but he hated it. Too much too soon. So we turned it back into a cot bed until he settled. Then set about one by one over a period of weeks taking a side or an end down and letting him get used to that.
On Saturday night, freshly bathed, stories read, pyjamaed up, he trotted into his bedroom, saw his new improved bed, smiled, patted it and said “Big boy bed, that’s better”. He loves his grown up bed. I love my grown up bed. The apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.
My little baby is growing up fast. He’s nearly 3, knows his own mind, and is bright, lively and full of good humour. I’m so proud of him. He is the very best of me and Hodge in one gorgeous, chunky cheeked package. I don’t know where the last three years have gone, but I know that in the blink of an eye he’ll be six foot whatever and buying me a pint.
His big boy bed is just one of a million milestones in his life, and if he responds to them all with a “that’s better” then I’ll be (and am already) a very proud Mummy.