Of Big Girl Beds and Other Sad Things

We've decided to buy a "big girl" bed for A. I'm switching her room over to a doggie theme (the current theme is some combination of Muppets and Sesame Street). I tell ya, it's hard to find dog-themed stuff that is not made specifically for boys. I am fighting the "pink princess" stuff as hard as I can. If she wants a room full of pink junk she can pay for it herself. Before she was born we didn't get an opportunity to find out if she would be a boy or a girl, so I decided to decorate the room in primary colors. The new room will still have primary colors, but we're switching things up a little. And, of course, we're removing the crib and changing table.

I wonder if there is anything more bittersweet than buying a grown-up bed for a little girl. We talked it up a lot and she was pretty excited about it. I laid her down on a comfy-looking mattress at the furniture store.

"What do you think? Is it comfortable?"
"No."

So we bought it and on the way home A announced, "I don't want a big girl bed." And that is probably because she seems to be contractually obligated to disagree with everything that comes her way. "Do you want lunch?" "No." "Is the sky blue?" "No."

Oh, and she's decided to drop her afternoon nap like a hot potato. I hope this is a temporary condition, because I think I can also speak for our daycare provider when I say that NOT having that brief period of solitude in the afternoon would be a bad bad bad thing. We left her in her crib for over two hours today (the new bed won't be set up for a few days). When I checked on her after the first hour, she had her socks on her hands and was busy tossing books through the bars. Eventually she pooped her pants, started yelling for me, and I conceded yet another battle.

The biggest sign that she is growing up is that her language skills have now reached the point where you can carry on complete conversations with her. The other night she and I were at dinner and I said, "Pie, what do you want to talk about?" "Ice cream," she said. That was fine with me, because I like talking about ice cream, too. I keep asking her, "Where is the baby I brought home from the hospital?" and she replies, "I'm not a baby, mama." And . . . my heart cracks just a little each time.


Why won't she stop growing up?

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