At one time, you slept like a butterfly in something my friend liked to call that sack.
You loved your Amby Bed sack, so much so that I worried you’d always need to sleep suspended in the air. But one day, after I learned that putting you to bed earlier—rather than later—made falling asleep easier, you spent the night in a crib. And there you’ve slept for a year and a half.
You never once tried to climb out of your crib, which surprised me. Isn’t that a rite of passage? Weren’t we supposed to awake one morning to see you standing by the foot of our bed?
I guess there’s plenty of time for that now, because your father found this on craigslist:
When your father told me it was a train bed, I didn’t make the connection. Or maybe I did and I just didn’t want to accept the fact that another piece of your life had fallen prey to that fat-faced train.
I’m happy Thomas brings you so much joy, but between the Thomas lamp, night light and train station set, our home is starting to resemble the Island of Sodor, and that freaks me out. Some days it bothers me because the Island of Sodor sounds a lot better than Mulletville, and I don't really want it to be my go-to place when I'm in the bubble bath.
Unless Sir Topham Hatt suddenly started looking like this:
Other days it bothers me because Thomas the Train seems like a big commercial machine. None of the other characters you could have chosen to embrace seem as heavily outfitted. Curious George doesn’t have a shed he sleeps in or a platform he puffs up to (one that retails for $19.99 anyway). And Clifford the Big Red Dog doesn’t even have a dog bowl—at least one that I’ve seen in the stores.
I want to be sure you don’t become the kind of kid who walks into a store expecting five new Thomas friends. I know that has a lot to do with us, your parents, but the Thomas the Train empire is the size of planet earth, and your father and I are the size of, well, just middle class Homo sapiens.
Everything seemed so much simpler when you were dangling from a metal spring. Your gray, creepy-faced train bed has made me realize that I'm not ready for you to be ready for a real bed. I had a lot of wine tonight and I'm really, really crumpled up over your sudden leap into big boyhood.
Could you please slow down? Could you please give me a second to absorb all this? Could James or Percy possibly talk to the Fat Controller about starting an exercise regime?
No? I didn't think so.
P.S. If you have an Amby Bed, the company did a voluntary recall in January. All the details are here.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.