We've Got the Big Boy Bed Blues

The pep-talk

The test-ride

The distraction

The only one happy to see the new Big Boy bed

We're transitioning kovi into a big boy bed. there isn't a conjunction here... no, "we're transitioning kovi into a big boy bed, and things are going great," "or, boy this is tough," "or, he is driving me to drink." Instead, I have this to add:

There are days that I contemplate carting Tyler's one-man raft down to the pond, paddling it in tight circles, whilst screaming as though I were just stabbed in the eye with a blunt, toddler-proof fork. I liken the sear of the elephant-handled eating utensil ripping through my eyeball relative to the tortuous pain of keeping kovi in his bed.

***

"Yay, a BIG boy bed...so dudical, Dude! Let's try it out!," Mom and Dad say with comically exaggerated gusto. I think Big Daddy even did a little dance, elbows cocked and high, surprisingly sprite-like. We clapped, we yayed, we high-fived...and Kovi looked at us, glinty-eyed and with a manically-hatched plan, like we were fools. Thusly night one began.

Knowing our child's penchant for scaling objects of either A) complete dangerousness or B) grossly and disproportionately insurmountable, we'd try to be proactive and installed the Tallest Gate Made On the Planet. Seriously, it's meant to keep Great Danes and Hancock Buildings penned. Like, trying to straddle the thing would lead to certain sterilization. With that at the hallway of his room and a baby-proof doorknob on the inside of his door, we were pompously certain no child, specifically our child, would escape the clutches of his stuffed animal-laden torture chamber. (insert hysterical laugh)

Night one went something like this:

8-10pm, put Kovi back in bed, repeat ad nauseum

10-11pm, put Kovi back in bed and admire the way he figured out how to scale the World's Tallest Gate without the use of a pick axe, repelling equipment or parachute

11-12am, put Kovi back in bed, admire, now, the speed with which he traverses aforementioned exceedingly tall gate, and wonder how the hell he figured out the doorknob thingy when it took us approximately 17 years to master.

12-1am, put Ever back to sleep and assure her the banshee screams from across the hall are self-inflicted.

1-2am, lay, face down on the VERY uncomfortable floor (were floors always this uncomfortable or have they done something to them in more recent years to make them completely unbearable?) and ram hand through slats of big boy bed positioning it directly in site of one very loud, very crabby Woog. Pretend to be sleeping, but all the while crying tears of pain because 1) my upwardly-extended appendage is now totally asleep and signaling my furry brain to "DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS," via extreme pins and needles and 2) I'm pretty sure my back will never regain it's former non-backwards U shape.
2:45am, crawl like a crab (recall backwards U) back to my own bed where I am serenaded to the snores of an equally tired Big Daddy.
5am, the Banshee is calling and meets me half-way down the stairs, his eyes foretelling of the kind of day it's going to be. We shuffle our way back into his room, he in his bed, I in his pint-sized tent, legs spilling out, feet fighting for ground free of books, animals and other Woog paraphernalia. I think I slept, but awaken to a chubby, sweetish-tasting digit being rammed into my mouth (I think dentistry is a possible direction), after navigating my molars, he rumba'd with my uvula and decided the response he was looking for included a full body slam to my upper torso. And now we're up...or he is. I'm something less definable, like an amoebae without it's ooze, I just scrape myself along hoping someone will be kind enough to sneeze on me.