Too Big for Butterflies

When I cam home from work on Monday, Beth’s crib was gone. Ken had taken it apart and converted it into a toddler bed.

It took me by surprise when I first walked into Beth’s room, like that feeling you get when you first step off an elevator and aren’t sure if you should turn right or left.

It didn’t phase Beth.

“Look, Mama!” She laughed and clapped her hands. “Santa brought me a new bed!”

The crib had been in our house, in the same room, since we moved in almost seven years ago. It had become a fixture in my heart, a symbol of our ever-growing family.

Ken and I bought the crib at IKEA when I was pregnant with Eric. We didn’t know much about cribs. Or diapers. Or bottles. Or babies. Or anything.

We had shopped and shopped until we finally found one that satisfied both of us. It looked pretty, a pale natural oak. It seemed sturdy and strong. And it met all of the required safety specifications. We hefted it into the car and took it home.

A few days later, I stood in the nursery admiring our handiwork. Ken and I had spent the day putting it together. The chore had taken longer than expected but in the end, the crib looked beautiful.

"Why are the instructions in Swedish?" I asked.

"That's Norwegian." Ken corrected.

We still lived in our old house then; and the wooden crib was a perfect fit. I remember looking around the baby's room and imagining myself sitting in the rocking chair next to my baby's bed. I thought about the stories I would read. I thought about the songs I would sing. I thought about patting my little one's back and smiling as I watched my baby drift into dreamland.

Eric received the first turn to sleep in the crib. As the oldest, it was his right. Unfortunately, he never liked it much. After nine months squished up in my belly, I think he felt lonely in the vast cavern of the crib.

I came to dread bedtime. I would rock Eric for hours in my arms. I would sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” a hundred times. I would pat his back into the wee hours of the night. When I was sure he was asleep, I would gently lay him on the mattress, cover him with his soft blue blanket and sneak out of the room. Then, just when I was settling into my own bed, he would wail and scream and I would rush back to start the process again. Eric was nine months old before he finally slept a full night in the crib.

When Emily’s turn came to use the crib, I was a bit smarter. The crib was so big and she was so small. Eric had taught me that.

So I started Emily out in a bassinet and kept her beside my bed for four months. If she woke in the middle of the night, I would reach over and touch my hand to her warm cheek or squeeze her fingers gently until she closed her eyes.

I didn’t move Emily to the crib until I was sure she could spend the night on her own. By then I had a system. I would read her a story, sing “My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean” and tuck her in, smooth and easy. She would fall asleep with a smile on her face.

Emily stayed in the crib until she was almost two, just before Beth was born. My plan was for Emily to use the crib for another six months or so. After all, Beth would use the bassinet.

What I didn't know was that Eric and Emily had conspired to upset the balance of bedtime. Eric taught Emily to scale the sides of the crib so they could play together before Mom and Dad woke in the mornings.

I would be laying in bed when I would hear giggling at my elbow. I would turn over and there I'd see Emily smiling at me and saying "Goo mor'ing Mama." Ken and I were forced to move Emily to a big girl bed or risk her tumbling over the top rail of the crib on one of her adventures.

Then it was Beth's turn. For Beth, the crib was her haven from the first day we brought her home. She never objected like Eric. She never tried to escape like Emily.

After a day of giggling and playing, I would rock Beth gently, read her a story about Elmo, lay her on her back, kiss her cheek and cover her with her pink blankie. She would smile, turn on her side, sigh and drift off to sleep. Easy peasy.

Beth's crib was stuffed with dolls and animals. She would sleep in the heap with her Piggy (a pink plush dog that she insists is a pig) clutched in her arms. She never cried or fussed. But in the morning, if I didn't come in to get her right away, she would toss all of her friends out of bed in protest. I'd open her door and find dolls, dogs and and dinosaurs scattered across the room. "Mama, up!" She would insist.

If it were up to me, Beth would have continued sleeping in the crib until she was seventeen. But it wasn’t up to me. It was up to Beth. She had grown bigger, despite my pleas and objections. She started rejecting her crib and insisted on sleeping on her travel cot or on the floor.

"It's time to go to your cribby and go night-night." I said.

"No, Mama, I'm a big girl." She said.

Ken gave in first. He's always been more of a realist. He knew Beth was right. She was a big girl now. Ken pulled out his allen-wrench and screw driver and removed the side rails. The crib morphed into a bed just as Beth had morphed from baby to child.

And just like that, my world changed. All of my babies were gone, replaced by three big kids.

This summer, I am planning to paint Beth’s room. I’ll probably choose a pretty purple or pink. I’ll decorate it with little girl things like butterflies and flowers. I'll find her a frilly blanket edged with lace. When I'm done, I’ll admire it and enjoy it.

Until the day comes when Beth decides she is too big for butterflies.