the end of an era

Isabelle is asleep upstairs. In her very own child-size bed. For the first time in her three and a half years.

Recently, having re-discovered this lovely book by Jan Ormerod, she started talking about having her own bed, just like the little girl in the book, and it just so happened that a very good friend (thanks again Sammy!) had one she was willing to donate. Anyway, the bed arrived this morning and Isabelle was excited as a flea (that's French idiom); we were busy the first half of the day choosing the right blanket, the right sheet, the right pillow, the right mosquito net (??). Then she spent the rest of the day 'just sitting' on her bed. She refused to have any dolls or stuffed animals in it, because it is 'her' bed. She also refused to let any of us lie in it to try it out. Mine. Mine. Mine. She said.

I am so happy and excited for her. So proud too: in the span of one day, she expanded. Stood taller. Broader. Bigger. It was an amazing thing to witness.

I am also a little sad for myself. Since the 23rd of December 2003 until today, with only two notable exceptions, Isabelle and I have slept in the same bed, cuddled up together, every single night. That is exactly 1250 nights.

And now she is gone.

I try to tell myself she did not go far (I think if I reach my arm as far as it will go, and if I lie with my head where my feet used to be, I can still touch her). I try to tell myself she'll be back (probably as soon as tomorrow morning 6 am for a cuddle). But it still feels like far, and it still feels like forever.

My little bird is spreading her wings. And I can't tell apart the taste of sadness and the taste of joy in my mouth. I think this is called love.