When J was a child, he and his brother did not share a room. Nonetheless, J needed bunk beds. The bottom was for him; the top was for his massive stuffed-animal collection.
The beds were part of a set – desk, dresser, and bookcase – that we inherited several years ago when we bought our first house. The dresser became mine, the lower bunk and desk eventually became our au pair’s, and the bookcase was quickly over-populated by my insatiable need for books. The top bunk remained in my in-laws’ house until such time as we would need it.
That time has arrived. A month ago, Benjamin made it quite clear that he was having none of this crib nonsense. He wanted to be free like the wind or somesuch horseshit. He would scream the moment he awakened, driven to fury because he was unable to get out of bed. Since our toddler bed was in storage awaiting a house, we had the temporary housing peeps bring in a twin, and so the transition was made.
Now, however, there is no space for two twin beds in our boys’ new room, and they were pretty stoked to realize they could have something called “bunk beds.” We moved the whole set, sans bookshelf for Benjamin to topple on his pretty little head, into their new room. It is understating the case to call this furniture sturdy. I am pretty sure it was designed to survive all forms of natural disasters and several man-made ones. It is solid, it is indestructible, and it is heavy as hell.
It softens something hard in me to know my boys are using the same furniture their father used, and not just because I like the environmental aspect of it. While J laments the things he carved into his childhood desk, I love that Zachary is sitting and making his books at his father’s desk, writing on top of his Daddy’s writing. He escorts our guests into his new room, explaining, “My Daddy used to sleep in the bed, but now I do.”
There is no end to the giggling and climbing that seem to go hand-in-hand with a bunk bed ladder, although the younger child can only get up, not down. We make sure to supervise when he climbs up to Zach’s level. There they are, our boys, stacked on top of each other, cozy in their Daddy’s childhood bedroom.
It is heartwarming and all that is sentimental. It is also, I realized as I struggled to get sheets on that top bunk, probably going to kill me. How the fuck does one make up a top bunk? Is it like bad sex, mostly accomplished through sweating and grunting? Is there a special trick I have yet to learn? And how will I do it when I am eight months pregnant? I can barely get up the ladder to kiss him goodnight as it is.
Please, someone tell me, how do I put a fitted sheet on the bed when I have to climb onto the mattress in order to reach the corners? And, remember, I am getting heavier with every passing week.