BIG GIRL BED

Dear Spike:

It's four-thirty in the God-forsaken a.m.

You've been in and out of sleep for the past two hours. That wouldn't have been altogether unusual a week ago, but the past seven days have been a lovely string of relatively restful nights for our little family, as you've been slumbering in your brand-spanking-new bed.

It was a bit of a gamble, I suppose. Discontent with spending your nights like a little convict, you'd been spending nearly as much time sleeping in our bed as you had in your crib. We figured if we got you one of your own, it might make for a more slumbersome situation for all of us.

On Christmas morning, while you had breakfast with your mother, I went to the basement to retrieve the bed I built for you — a simple 2-by-4 frame painted mossy green to match your room. I tore down your crib and set the bed up in the corner of your room. Then your mother made it up with a quilt she stitched for you.

Someday, I'm sure, you'll be a bit underwhelmed by the way we do Christmas — exchanging simple handmade gifts instead of barraging one another with a salvo of store-bought items — but on this Christmas morning, you couldn't have been more excited.

"Bed!" you squealed, nearly tripping over the cuffs of your pajamas as you leapt onto the covers. "Big girl bed!"

You've slept soundly ever since. Up until tonight, that is.

For whatever reason, you woke a 2 a.m. and just couldn't get back to sleep. Your mother, who is off of work this week, took one for the team and went to be by your side. I listened in over the baby monitor as she tried to rock you, sing to you and tell you stories. Nothing worked.

Finally, at about 4 a.m., she gave up. She brought you into our room and set you down you between us.

But you wanted nothing of it.

"Bed!" you cried. "Big girl bed! Pleeeeeease. Big girl bed!"

Whatever the problem is tonight, it's not that you don't like your bed.

And so she brought you back to your room, tucked you in and snuggled up beside you. Now — for the moment at least — you're both asleep, singing a sort of snoring duet that's being broadcast live to anyone fortunate enough to be tuned into the frequency of your baby monitor.

Sweet dreams.

Love,
dad