“Got holes. It’s broken.”

“It’s not broken, Acorn. This was your bed when you were little. It used to have a side here, see? But now it’s your big boy bed, so it doesn’t need a side any more.”

“Got a side?”

“Yes. See? That piece over there.”

“Ohh… See.”

“Would you like to lie down on your bed and see how it feels?”

“Yes! Want my blue one.”

We fish his blue pacifier — the only one he still takes, and that only at night — out of the crib and he climbs into his new bed and lies on the bare mattress, grinning.

“Do you want to sleep in your bed tonight?”


“All right, I’ll move the sheets to your bed, and then we can brush your teeth.”


We brush his teeth…

“Sing, Mama! Song about teefs.”

…and read a story.

“A shark! Got a hook. Oh! Anudder shark! It got a hook, too. See its hook?”

“I see it, honey. That’s its dorsal fin.”

“Yeah. Got a hook.”

Then it’s bedtime.

“Go to your room, buddy, and I’ll tuck you into your bed.”

“Tuck me in my bed!” he squeals with glee.

I follow him.

“Got empty holes. Piece missing,” he shows me.

“Yes, that’s where the side went when it was your baby bed. Now it’s your big boy bed, because you don’t need a side on your bed any more.”

“Yeah. Tuck me inna my bed, Mama?”

I tuck him in and sing to him, two songs. (“Sing ‘Bus,’ Mama! Sing good-night song!”)

An hour later I slip into his room. My excuse is to see how he’s doing, this first night out of a crib; but really I just want to watch him sleep. He’s gone through his usual contortions: he’s on his back, legs curled around his stuffed dog, one hand tucked between his head and the pillow, and his quilt draped messily around and across his head, leaving his mouth and chin peeking out.

One more milestone passed on the road from babydom to boyhood.