Bed

Last week we bought the Boy a new bed. It's a very cool bed, sort of like a bunk bed but without the bottom bunk. Needless to say, if I thought it would take my weight I would have swapped with him. The Girl was very jealous. This presented us with a series of dilemmas.

First of all, if you've got two kids, you won't get away with buying one of them something new. The Girl reminded us of this at VERY high volume once we'd set the new bed up. She decided she wanted a new bed. A football bed to be precise. And so, to placate her I drew a football and stuck it to the side of her bed. Bizarrely this seems to have worked. After a brief attempt to throttle Boris the cat she trotted merrily off and went to sleep without a complaint.

Problem number two was that the Boy, whilst more than able to climb the ladder into his bed, couldn't get back down. This led to me being woken at three AM to rescue him because he needed a wee. The Boy appears to have the prostate of an eighty year old, he nips to the loo twice per night on average. I'm nearly forty and I don't need to do that.

I explained to him the next day that it might take a little time for him to grow into the bed so that he's comfortable going up and down the ladder. He mused on this for a moment and then asked the two questions he thought most pertinent.

"Will my bum get bigger when I'm older?"

And, after I confirmed this.

"Does that mean my poo will be even bigger?"

He certainly puts the 'logical' into 'scathalogical'. Finally, tonight I heard him crying after I put him to bed and on entering his room, found him quite inconsolable. Earlier this evening I'd discovered the Girl in a similar condition and established the cause of her distress was that;

"Boris meowed."

So I was expecting a similarly odd rationale for the Boy's tears. I was not disappointed.

"I miss my old bed. It was my friend."

This, I feel, explains a lot. About eighteen months ago the Boy found me wiping tears from my eyes as I chopped onions.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because I'm chopping onions."

"Oh. They're not your friends. They're just onions."

So now I find myself in the weird position of worrying that the Boy's new bed befriends him. Christ, what if it bullies him? The therapy will cost a fortune.