As I sit here and type, Zuzu’s head is pressed against my side and one of her suddenly-so-very-long legs is thrown over the top of the blanket. She never thinks she’s cold enough to be under the covers completely, and all night one or the other of us is half-waking to tuck her back under the quilts.
This last week we set up her bed upstairs, and tonight – or tomorrow, perhaps – will be her last night in our bed. She’s ready, we’re MORE than ready, but I can’t pretend. I will miss it, miss her.
All of our babies have stayed in our bed, from the first nights (when I can finally roll over without dragging a giant belly with me, oh bliss) through the first birthday and weaning and second birthday and first prayers and, with a couple of them now, the third birthday too.
And then one night whoever the baby of the family is falls asleep with the older kids in the pile of snoring bodies they inevitably make on the big bed upstairs, and that baby sleeps through the night without waking, and proudly tells about it the next morning. Then we know, and we put up another bed and add another set of sheets to the wash.
Zuzu’s already spent two nights up there with her sisters. The only reason she’s in our bed tonight is that she was sad at bedtime and wanted me to rub her back until she fell asleep. I should pick her up and sling her long arms over my shoulder and climb the stairs to put her down for the night, but I’ve been putting it off for two hours now. Maybe one more night with little toes in the small of my back won’t be so bad.