Welcome my friends to a tale of woe. A story so in need of telling that I couldn’t wait any longer to offload it into this here screen. This, my bloggy friends, is the saga of the itty bitty teeny weeny bed.

When we moved into my sister’s guest bedroom, we left the majority of our furniture in storage and decided to crash on what she had in the room. Choosing the front room meant that we were now the proud custodians of a double bed. And I don’t mean each. Mr Suger and I would be sharing. As you do.

We have been happily cohabiting a queen bed for a number of years dreaming of the day we upgrade to a king. A shift in this direction is not really what we had in mind. After all, I am almost 5’11, well you know, fat and Mr Suger is around 5’10 and rather rotund himself at the moment. That’s where the saga comes in.

It’s a tight squeeze people.

Like maybe I have some insight into what it’s like to live in a submarine kind tight. Okay, slight exaggeration, I do have roof space. But I awoke the other morning with pale blue toes from my ankle hanging over the timber bed frame all night. Situation critical when you have just purchased some very cool peep toe shoes! I had visions of a toe-less future and swore my sleeping self would be more careful.

My strain for space is not helped by the fact that Mr Suger the snuggler overestimates how much bed I have on my side. He full body presses against me as I teeter on the edge at serious risk of toppling over. This has always been an issue for us, long ago I took to getting out and walking around to the other side of the bed. We were dating then and I was sweet and filled with ‘naaaaw, he’s so snuggly and adorable, I don’t want to wake him’. Now I punch him in the guts and demand he rolls over. There is not enough room for such shenanigans in a double bed, one must contain themselves to their teeny tiny side.

And don’t even get me started on the time my foot went through the frame only to then pin me there. I awoke with such a fright I thought someone, or worse, something, was grabbing my ankle in my sleep! Creeeeepy. Trust me, your heart beats awfully fast and the adrenaline throbs through your veins, when you awake under attack. The good news is I am now confident that yes, I would survive the Hunger Games. Just maybe not in the Katniss and Peta years.

So what is to be done in the saga of the itty bitty teeny weeny bed?

My sister Amanda Claire recommends we move into the back room, at least to sleep. But given it is next door to my nephew Ashton’s room and adjacent to his play room, it feels like an imposition. Like we are in his space and their space to parent. But let me tell you, there may come a night, maybe when I next attack the bed frame, that the other room wins and all my concerns for being a pain in the butt disappear.

Sorry, baby Ashton, this aunty NEEDS her sleep.

Full disclosure and everything, that photo, it’s not of our bed. That bed looks delicious. Can I have THAT bed? Image from Death to Stock Photo. Legends.

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