The boys have bunkbeds. One rarely sleeps on the top bed right now, but they do like to play there. It’s like their own, less fun version of a treehouse. Sometimes, Buzz will climb up to get away from Abby, since she’s kind of a tough little thing and yet unable to scale the ladder. Not for lack of trying.
Since they don’t sleep on the top bunk, I only have to climb up every now and then to make the bed. I can’t imagine having to do it every day when Jedi finally starts spending his nights there, because it’s the kind of thing that warrants casualty pay. My age definitely shows as I gingerly crawl about, doing my best not to fall off or have the metal frame collapse on me. There’s a weight limit posted on one of its rails, one which even the slimmest adult would exceed greatly.
The other day, after Buzz had climbed up and away from Abby, she whined, wanting to go up there, too. In a moment of feeling generous, I obliged. I stood guard the entire time, though, because I’m paranoid and my kids are, well, nuts.
Having a great time with the new experience of being so high up, she wanted me to join her. “Mommy up!” she said.
“No, Mommy’s good down here, OK?”, I told her in turn.
Shaking her head in the positive, she offered seriously in reasoning, “Mommy’s too heavy.”
“Mommy’s too heavy?”, I asked, amused at this point.
“Mommy HEAVY”, she reiterated, still shaking her head knowingly.
And that’s when I made her get down, because there’s no need to be rude about it.