I didn’t fully grasp the momentous nature of what I was undertaking as I cleared out the bottom bunk bed. It had become a makeshift haven for my younger son’s older brothers’ stuffed animals, and I found myself sifting through a mountain of plush toys, along with the remnants of little boy debris: Legos, toy food, and plastic soldiers that I discreetly discarded when no one was looking.
After a considerable effort, the space was finally tidied up. I decided to donate some stuffed animals and dress the bed with clean sheets. Lacking a second twin comforter, I retrieved a cherished quilt made by my grandmother, adorned with fading pink whales. I transferred over my son’s two pillows from my room, one featuring Scooby Doo and the other sporting Paw Patrol. I arranged his collection of stuffed animals, including multiple hedgehogs, Daniel Tiger, O the Owl, and Winnie the Pooh.
“Look, Finn!” I exclaimed. “I’ve made your bed! You can sleep in it tonight!”
“Yay!” he cheered, while his brothers gathered around, excitedly chattering about how much fun it would be for him to sleep in the bottom bunk.
“I got our little one thrilled about sleeping in his own bed tonight,” I shared with my husband upon his return from work.
“You’re incredible,” he replied.
When bedtime arrived, I snuggled next to Finn, calling for his older siblings to quiet down multiple times before they finally settled. Finn nursed for a bit before drifting off, and I carefully slipped out of the softly lit room. At that moment, I didn’t think much of the significance of it all.
“Oh my goodness, we can finally have some privacy in here,” my husband remarked, glancing at our empty bedroom.
While I relished the newfound freedom, a pang of sadness struck me. My baby was no longer beside me at night. This was different from the times I had sent older babies to bed while expecting. Finn is my youngest. There will be no more babies for me. I won’t again wake to the sweet scent of a small child, nor will I have that warm little body curled up against me. The mornings of him waking just because I have, only to doze off next to me on the couch, are over. I’ll no longer be jolted awake by the sound of his nightmares. That chapter has closed; he no longer needs me at night.
“But he’s just a baby—” I started.
“He’ll be back in half an hour, begging for you,” my husband teased.
“You’re right,” I conceded, and we locked the door to enjoy some adult time while we could.
However, my husband was mistaken. Finn slept through the night on that first occasion, though he did wake up, puzzled about why I wasn’t still there. He repeated this on the second night. By the third night, he resisted returning to his bed altogether. My heart ached as I encouraged him to come find me if he felt scared; just give it a try, sweetheart.
“Okay, Mama,” he said, promptly dozing off.
I had hoped Finn might sneak in, dragging along a stuffed hedgehog after we turned in for the night. I imagined him nestling against me, and I would wrap my arms around him until he fell asleep. Our older kids, now six and eight, still occasionally do this, and I thought I had more time with Finn. I believed we were transitioning, not severing the bond.
While I appreciate the privacy I now have, I miss the little moments with my baby. My room is once again my sanctuary, where I can speak freely, play music, and binge-watch shows like The X-Files without a care. And truthfully, I’m especially grateful for the chance to reconnect with my husband in our own bed without interruptions.
Yet, that bed feels so vast now. It’s not just one bed; it’s a twin positioned alongside a queen, designed for accommodating little ones who would come and go. But it seems those days are behind us. Our six-year-old has sneaked in a few times recently, but he’s all angles and limbs—nothing like the soft warmth of a nearly four-year-old. My husband and I now occupy the queen-sized bed, squeezed into one corner of that sprawling mattress. I can’t help but think this is how it will be from now on—less needed, always ebbing away, and left behind.
I know this is how it should be; it’s what I signed up for. This is the essence of parenting: watching your children grow and cheering them on in their journey. Parenthood indeed is the gradual process of learning to let go. So, I stealthily reclaimed one of my childhood teddy bears from the boys; they wouldn’t miss it. I hugged the bear tightly as I drifted off to sleep. I will miss my baby, but I also look forward to my growing boy. Somehow, I find a way to hold both feelings in my heart simultaneously.
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Summary:
As Clara navigates the bittersweet transition of her youngest son, Finn, moving to his own bed, she reflects on the emotional impact of this milestone. While she cherishes newfound privacy with her husband, she grapples with the reality of her last baby growing up. This poignant journey of motherhood emphasizes the delicate balance of letting go while embracing the joy of watching her child develop into an independent person.