We had been through a lot, my bed and I. I received it as a consolation prize in 1987 when it was clear that I was being replaced.
It took the sting off a bit, I guess. Maybe if I was distracted by an endless sea of bed, I wouldn't notice the ever-screaming infant on the other end of the house.
(Just kidding. I loved my baby brother. Still do. I was a tad disappointed when they brought home a baby wearing the opposite of pink, but I got over it.)
I remember laying on the end of that bed and peeking through the crack in my door to watch movies when my parents thought I was asleep. (I remember "Big" in particular. I thought Tom Hanks was so cute.) I played out some of my finest dramatic performances (aka "temper tantrums") on that bed. (I also fell out of that bed a lot. The last time was this past March. I am not proud of that fact.)
That bed was a covered wagon as I travelled the Oregon Trail. It was a ship sailing to America for a better life for me and my baby dolls. It was a hospital bed in Africa as I lay dying slowly and dramatically from some exotic disease.
That bed was also a jail cell when I didn't want to take a nap or when I was *gasp* grounded.
I dreamt my little girl dreams in that bed. I dreamt my not-as-little girl dreams in that bed. I dreamt my really-not-so-little girl dreams in that bed.
I took a little break from my bed when I got married, but whenever I got sick, I still returned to it. It was my place of comfort. That bed knew me.
I cried in that bed when my dreams fell apart and I found myself alone again.
My surroundings always changed, but my bed was always the same. It was home.
This year, I got old and started waking up with awful aches and pains. I felt like I'd be run over by a truck every morning.
"You need a new bed.", Mom and Dad said.
"Nooooooo....?", I replied.
I had fought them on this subject for at LEAST 10 years. I finally surrendered when they got a new king sized bed and promised me their cushy queen.
The queen won't fit down the stairs and into my house, so I settled for a twin.
This Thursday, I helped Mom carry my old friend up the stairs. When Dad Steve volunteered to take it to the transfer station for me, I help lay it against the wall on my side of the garage.
I know it sounds silly, but when I walked out of the garage, I was SOOOOO SAD. I didn't feel like I had just left behind a mattress and a box spring. I felt like I was walking out on my life up until that point.
Now, I'm not saying that I'm not thankful for my new little bed, I am. I sound like such a silly little girl, I should just be damn glad that I don't have to sleep on a floor like most of the world!
It was a shock, my first night in my little bed. (I think Cordy might have been more shocked. It's a tight squeeze for the both of us.) It was my bed at Mom and Dad's new house, so we've been through some tough times too. It's seen me cry before. It was nothing new when I started crying "I MISS MY BED!!!" Thursday night.
I'm sorry, little new bed. I'll be better, I promise.
And then when it's time to get rid of you, I'll write YOU a long blog post.
R.I.P. Old bed. I miss you.
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