This past Sunday, my wife took apart our babies's crib. Our daughter is a few days away from her second birthday and has been occupying our son's bed from Ikea the past few days while he sleeps on the floor, well padded with a couple of comforters and a featherbed. I felt kind of sad because it meant my babies are growing up. It was like a rite of passage, a step toward young adolescence. I packed the crib into the van and took it to the Hope Station near our home to donate it. The man wanted to make sure that I wanted to get rid of it. "Yes, I'm sure," I said. "No more babies." "No accidents," he asked. I was thinking, dude, a little personal isn't it? But replied instead, "No accidents." Sigh.
Now the strange thing is now when my daughter wakes up in the middle of the night, she comes to me in my bed. I don't have to get up. Well, that is until she taps me on my chest and says "Daddy, could I have a bottle please?" Bummer, now I have to get up and get her a bottle of milk.
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