Some days, I feel like I’m managing this whole parenting gig. Other days? Well, let’s just say I wonder how I was ever trusted to leave the hospital with a tiny human—four times. Today was definitely one of those “what was I thinking?” days.
It’s been ages since I tackled the daunting task of changing sheets and making beds—possibly since the last ice age, or so it feels. With one queen-sized bed, two sets of bunk beds, and a crib to handle, I was faced with quite the mountain of bedding. Let’s do the math: 2 mattresses from the bunk beds, 1 queen, and a crib, plus a plethora of stray socks and stuffed animals lurking in corners. It’s a lot, okay?
I usually avoid this chore like I avoid exercise and those dreaded volunteer committees. I was just adding the final touches to my three-year-old’s bottom bunk when my ten-year-old piped up and asked, “Mom, can you make my bed too?”
“Of course, sweetie! Yours is next!” I replied, feeling rather accomplished—at least for the next three minutes.
Then came the challenge of scaling the top bunk, which felt akin to climbing Mount Everest. The ladder seemed to mock me. “Look at the big one struggling to climb us! Is she really going to slip again?” I finally reached the top and was met with utter disbelief.
It was like a scene from a prison movie up there—no sheets, a pile of fifteen books under the pillow, and the so-called mattress was nothing more than a toddler bed pad sliced into three sections. I gasped, “Um, you don’t have any sheets. How long has it been like this?”
Her response? “I don’t know. A while, I think.”
I pressed on, “Why are you sleeping on these flimsy pads? What happened?”
“I think something went wrong when you were fixing the beds before. You couldn’t finish? I don’t remember. It was a while ago.”
Her memoir titled “I Don’t Remember. It Was a While Ago” is bound to become a bestseller in the parenting world.
As I surveyed the barren top bunk, all that was missing was a metal cup for her to rattle against the guardrail. Meanwhile, the unused top bunk of my son’s bed was decked out like a five-star hotel—double mattress, plush topper, sheets, pillows, and blankets aplenty for the invisible guest who sleeps there.
I spent the next two hours hauling mattresses and rearranging blankets. I tucked in the corners and dressed my daughter’s bed with the softest sheets I could find. How did I let this happen for weeks—cough months? Oh right, the ladder. That thing is the real enemy.
I give kisses at the bottom of the bed. Nobody puts baby in a corner, unless it’s the corner of a neglected bunk bed.
On the bright side, I walked away with newfound admiration for my daughter. She never complained. Not once did she ask for sheets or express dissatisfaction about her thin mattress pads. She simply kissed us goodnight and climbed up to her desolate sleeping space.
The old tale says that a real princess could feel a pea beneath a stack of mattresses, but I believe a true princess would do exactly what my daughter did—kiss her family goodnight and make the best of her situation.
Despite my parenting blunders, we’ve got ourselves a bona fide princess. I hope she marries into royalty someday. We could all benefit from some Egyptian cotton around here.