The big boy bed did not fit up the stairs. This is after the salesman actually came to our house and measured to make sure it would fit. Luckily, David was oblivious to the intense conversations going on while the bed stood, wrapped in plastic, in the middle of the t.v. room.

The last time this happened, Rose was an infant. We had decided to get a queen sized, so the three of us could easily sleep together. At this point in our lives none of us were sleeping and we were in extreme agony, me especially. I was sure this bed would save my life. When I realized it was not going to make it, I sobbed on my old bed that had already been stripped.

This time I didn't sob. I didn't even feel that upset, just annoyed. The lovely moving men told us the secret—the company could saw the bed in half and then rebolt it upstairs, for a large overhead of course. After a dozen different phone calls—John, our friend Mike the contractor, the salesman, my sister, back to John—we got the mattress upstairs and sent the bed back to be sliced.

David is thrilled with his big boy bed. He just glows in it. As to be expected, bedtime routine is a bit interrupted, and he will often say he doesn't want to sleep in it, but last night he fell asleep holding his bear and slept all through the night.