When I was pregnant with Henry, Bob and I went shopping for a crib and a dresser at a baby superstore near our home. At the time, we lived in a petite 850 square feet so our selections had to maximize storage and not out-size Henry’s small nursery.
I can remember fighting, sitcom-style, while trying to put the crib together. Me, with my huge belly, asking Bob repeatedly, “Are you sure you have all of the pieces from the box?” Bob, screwdriver in one hand, directions in the other, wearing a face of confusion, swearing he did. (He didn’t.)
The crib we so carefully selected has had three occupants and been disassembled and reassembled in as many spaces. Henry used the crib for over three years, relinquishing it to Charlie after our home renovations were complete. Charlie used the crib sporadically, opting most nights to cry until Bob retrieved him from it (ALERT: life foreshadowing).
It’s Millie’s now and at just under two years old, her time in it may prove to be the briefest. She is made from a different mold, this girl. She is all adventure and fun and trouble and good times and straight up mischief.
Under her watch, the crib has, essentially, devolved into a prison cell. A place for containment. This analogy rings especially true since lately, Millie enjoys tearing off all her clothes and peeing everywhere when I put her to bed at night. So, that’s getting old, much like the crib.
At one time, the crib had a beautiful bumper that coordinated with the sheet, the blanket, the wall colors, blah, blah, blergh. There might have even been a cute crib skirt with a matching pillow. It was, in essence, a vision of us trying. Now, like some kind of super sad metaphor for parenthood, it is a shell of its former self, with a broken drawer all askew, all hard bars with nary a (potentially dangerous but luxurious) bumper pad in sight and is an actual death trap, what with the now-illegal drop-down side.
It’s time to transition Millie to a bed without bars and I will not be sad to see the crib go. For someone with as much nostalgia as I seem to have, this surprises me. I’m eager to move on though. Eager to see my family grow on and up. And, judging by the number of times I’ve found Millie with one leg thrown over the rail, she’s eager to get going, too.