Getting Henry out of my bed has not been an easy task. It should be no surprise, really. Kicking boys out of my bed was never something I was particularly good at...
The whole sleeping issue is one of my two great failures as a parent, the other being eating. (Yes, I suck at basic life functions.) Although I've celebrated some successes over the past four years, they are always short-lived and somehow Henry ends up back in my bed. And because I'm criminally lazy, that's where he stays. Parenting at 2am? Yeah, I'm good for pretty much nothing around that time.
After sleeping quite peacefully in New York last weekend I realized (for like the 5th time) that I had to take control of this ridiculous situation. That's how you deal with stuff if you're me. Let things get completely out of control, until you are almost insane and then when you're ready to break shit, do something about it. So, I came home on Sunday with a plan. A plan to get a 40 pound preschooler out of my bed.
No holds barred. Take. Bull. Horns. Once and for all!
Like a warrior prepared for battle I approached Henry and broke the news that from now on he'd be sleeping in his big boy bed. I stared at him. He stared at me.
"Like, the whole night."
"Can I come in your room if I wake up?"
"No getting out of bed until the sun is up. I mean it. No more sleeping in my bed."
He smiled at me and said, "Okay, Mom."
Um, really? Just like that? All this time you've been hogging my bed and robbing me of beauty sleep and you're fine with my new rule? No problemo?
He may have politely agreed, but I knew what he was thinking, Sure, whatever lady. I'll have you worn down by Wednesday.
Well, it's Wednesday and my precious is still sleeping in his own bed, as he has been all week, all night long. I would declare victory, but now I can't sleep, because I'm wide awake listening for the sound of footsteps from little feet that could soon be wedged in my ribs. I think that's called anticipatory anxiety. At least now there is room for me to spread out and worry about it.