Big Girl Bed

A few weeks ago we decided to buy Clara a "Big Girl Bed." Since it was such a momentous event, I had Simon take a photo of me and Clara beforehand.
"Not bad," I said, inspecting the photo.
"Yes, except you're posed like a linebacker," Simon said.
"Meh," I replied. "Clara looks pretty cute, though."



We went to all of the major furniture stores in the Treasure Valley.

"Now, I have to remember not to ask the salesmen for a 'Big Girl Bed,'" I told Simon in the car. "What if they think I'm looking for a bed for myself when I say that? The correct terminology is, 'Toddler Bed.'"

We tried a hometown family-type furniture place. A young sales guy came over to greet us. He seemed sheepish, like he was embarrassed to be a salesman. I looked for telltale signs of his lack of job commitment, but, in spite of his youth, his trousers were pressed and he was wearing a white undershirt beneath his button-down (there's nothing worse than catching a shadow of someone's chest hair beneath a white button-down).

"We're looking for a bed for our little girl," glancing down at Clara. She was holding my hand and staring in amazement at the dozens and dozens of couches and beds and recliners in the showroom. So much to jump on and tumble over. It was toddler Utopia.

"Oh, you want a 'Big Girl Bed,'" he said, and Simon grinned silently at me. The salesman led us to a bunch of twin-sized bedroom sets. This was not the sort of thing we were looking for, but we let Clara go to town on the beds for awhile anyway. She put her stuffed dog to sleep on the top bunk of a set of bunk beds and efficiently destroyed the painstakingly-staged throw pillow configuration on a wrought-iron daybed.

Across the parking lot from the hometown family-type place was A FURNITURE STORE BEHEMOTH. As soon as we stepped into their showroom, it became clear why the salesman at the hometown family-type place was sheepish. People streamed into and out of the FURNITURE STORE BEHEMOTH's MASSIVE SHOWROOM. The elderly and infirm whirred quietly past king-sized mahogany beds in store-provided scooters. There was an electronics section with some kind of ornate electric light display above it. There was a cookie bistro at the back of the store. The hometown family-type place had obviously positioned their showroom to be like a baby piglet sucking on the teat of the mother sow FURNITURE STORE BEHEMOTH. Disenchanted or out-budgeted would-be FURNITURE STORE BEHEMOTH customers could just go across the parking lot to the hometown family-type place for a better deal.

Alas, though the FURNITURE STORE BEHEMOTH had Hello Kitty and Curious George and Star Wars and cowboy bedroom sets, nothing seemed right for us. As was the case at the hometown family-type place, the beds they marketed as 'Big Girl Beds' were actually twin-sized beds. We were looking for something smaller, more transitional.

We went to a Himalayan place for lunch. Clara ate only the sauces that came with our turkey dumplings, so we ended up getting her a hot dog, sweet-potato French fries and chocolate milk from a nearby restaurant.

Clara has never in her life had a hotdog. She sank into profound silence as she shoved juicy bites into her mouth. She became philosophical while she chewed. The world receded. There were whole universes to explore in this salty stick of discarded cow parts (it was a beef hotdog). She couldn't believe we withheld this delicacy from her for so long.

What was the purpose of our existence?

To eat hotdogs.

What was the meaning of life?

Did it matter, while there was hotdog in your mouth?

"Do you like your lunch?" I asked her.

"Oh, yes. I like hotdogs," she replied, her eyes widening, her mouth full of masticated meat and ketchup.

In the car she turned comatose, gazing without seeing at a point on the distant mountains. Her little belly was so full it was distended, pushing at the front of her shirt and making it ride up, exposing her little pink belly button.

"This is the key to getting her to nap," Simon said in wonderment. "Feed her obscene amounts of sodium, carbohydrates and fat."



We finally ended up at Babies R Us. They had a pretty good selection of toddler-sized beds. I envisioned us getting one of the simple wooden ones, but I noticed there were also two or three pink, princess-themed ones. A feeling of doom descended over me. I took Simon aside.

"Is this one of those times where we let her decide which one?" I asked him.

"I think we should. We want sleeping in a 'Big Girl Bed' to be a positive experience for her," he said.

"But we know which one she's going to choose. It's going to be the princess-themed one," I said. "And all the other moms in play group are going to make fun of me."

"What? Why?" Simon asked.

"Because everyone knows princesses are not good role models."

"So the other moms in play group are going to say, 'Ha-ha Isabelle, you let Clara have a princess bed! You're a bad mom!'"

"They're not going to be, like, 'Neener, neener,' or anything out loud, but they're going to think it in their hearts."

"How can you know what people think in their hearts?" Simon asked.

"I want this one," Clara said, pointing to a toddler bed featuring a headboard decorated with a dubious cast of characters: Belle, Snow White, and Cinderella, all vacant of eye and lustrous of curl. All with seventeen-inch waists. All seriously white. They could have at least added a princess of color, like Tiana from "The Princess and the Frog."

"Well, but do you want this one or this one?" Simon asked, showing her a similar-looking one with a canopy.

"Ohhhh! I want this one!" Clara said, pointing to the one with the canopy.

"I don't suppose they carry this kind of bed with a picture of Marie Curie on the headboard?" I asked.

"It would be cool if they had one with, like, the periodic table of elements on it," Simon agreed. "But I don't think they make those."

Clara had already pulled the boxed toddler bed she wanted part-way off the shelf.

In truth, anything pink and frilly makes me giggle. Deep in the recesses of my intellectual, highly-educated soul, the princess bed looked as enchanting to me as it must have to Clara. I secretly love Cinderella and Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, both for the pretty animation and the romance (Obviously, Clara doesn't understand the romance aspect yet. Seeing Prince Charming and Cinderella kiss just makes her come give me kisses and snuggles, a situation I can't really complain about.)

When Clara got her Calico Critters dollhouse for Christmas, with tiny Baby Bunny and its cache of tiny pink undies and bedding and clothes, I shrieked and clapped my hands and jumped up and down right along with her.

After some more deliberation at Babies R Us, we bought the princess-themed bed. As I was strapping Clara into her carseat,she looked at me very seriously and said, "Mommy, my princess 'Big Girl Bed' is in the back," and she pointed behind her to the back of the car. "That's my princess bed."