From crib to toddler bed, your bed kept you safe not only from bumps and bruises of a mid-night fall but also from a sense of a big, scary, unpredictable world. Within those cozy confines, you were further tucked in snug as a bug in a rug and wished sweet dreams. All was well.

I marveled at how you grew like a weed and winced when your bed creaked (I swear I even heard it groan) as I contorted myself to spoon you or even simply sit to read you a story.

It soon became undeniable that your sleeping spot for the past four years had to go. We excitedly shopped for a new bed and you were so excited for its delivery. I drooled over this bed’s shelves and drawers galore. I fantasized about action figures and stuffed animals neatly organized and even hidden out of sight.

It was clear you needed a new bed but what that really meant had a way of sneaking up on us. As your father disassembled your toddler bed, he jokingly asked you if you wanted to say anything to your old bed. Your chin quivered, your voice caught, and you furiously wiped away tears. You thanked your bed for keeping you safe and ran out of the room.

I guess it didn’t sneak up on both of us as much as it did on me. As a psychologist who has taught human development, I probably should have been ready for this. I should have been the one with the insight and self-awareness. I should have invited and normalized feelings other than excitement. Apparently I didn’t need to; my heart swelled with pride and cracked a bit upon watching you so earnestly say goodbye to not only your bed but your babyhood and even your little-boyhood.

The exclamations of how you’re such a big boy and the celebrations of milestones can shadow the grief that comes with leaving behind a time when you needed us more. You may miss it and I sure will. As I left behind my work identity, I became so wrapped up in becoming your mother that I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself. You may be our only so the question of my own needs now looms. I’m also about to enter unchartered and what feels like unsafe territory.

At least my training and instincts came together to predict a bumpy first night in the new bed. I slept on the couch in the next room to be there if you needed me. You awoke after midnight, half hanging off the bed, sweaty and crying. “Everything’s different,” you screamed. All I could do was hold you and acknowledge that things were different (and make a note to myself to buy a bedrail). What hadn’t changed was that I was there in a flash with your father not far behind. You unquestioningly reached for us and you fell into the sweet spots on each of us. You asked me to sleep with you and there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I needed it just as much as you did.

Not even a couple of hours later, you woke me and informed me that my services were no longer needed. My heart swelled and cracked again.

You still ask me to read you as many books as you can negotiate before I turn the lights off and I still get to tuck you in. You instruct me to check on you "every one minute". From the glow of your nightlight, you tell your father and me what you’re going to dream about, which is mostly about playing video games with Daddy and trying to teach me how to keep up.

I don’t know if I’ll ever keep up with the changes that each day seems to bring. More accurately, I don’t know if I will ever be able to prepare myself for the sneaky ones. I took walking, talking, and first day of preschool in stride. What else will take me by surprise? My heart is ready and waiting.