Good-bye, Crib

Saturday was a momentous day. We took Elisabeth's crib down and switched the kids' rooms around so that Elisabeth, who formerly had her own digs, moved in with her brother while Madeleine scored her own room.

I expected to be sadder. After all, our baby, and probably last child, was moving into a big bed. Strangely though, I'm more sad about the idea that it will be harder to get Elisabeth to stay put to nap now than I am about seeing her absurdly small form asleep in a bed that looks light years too large for her.

And the crib that has housed each one of my three children? In the attic. Neither Superdad or I put voice to the thought that doing so was a waste of time, effort and, most importantly in our small home, storage space. No, not until the seven-year-old crib was safely disassembled and packed away did I comment that it seemed silly that we were saving it. But I'm secretly happy to know that it's there, along with all my other favorite baby things. I'm feeling too well-rested and comfortable with my easy to care for children (well, relatively, compared to a newborn) to begin to delve into the psyche behind that secret joy.