It’s long past all our bedtimes. We are prickled with sweat. My husband Ed is cussing. My son Jamie is about to drop. I’m aghast. Our long night has begun with a spirited “let’s get ‘er done”, but now this family project is in tatters. Sundvik doesn’t fit.

Sundvik is a baby crib, from IKEA on the mainland, that will in due course be Cedar’s toddler bed. It glistens in solid beech, and matches the floor. After supper, Jamie and Ed manhandled the heavy slab up to the fourth floor condo, while I followed with the featherlight but unwieldy mattress carton. We need to put it up, and fast. Last night, Cedar rolled out of his Moses basket with a thump and a startled yell. But Sundvik is stuck in the door.

Two hours ago, our intergenerational project team had eagerly rolled up our sleeves. Deirdre had huddled in the back room, feeding Cedar and getting him ready to pop into his new bed. We tore off layers of cardboard and paper and plastic wrap to reveal an intimidating array of bits. Ed dumped the plastic bag of hardware onto the table, where pieces promptly pinged onto the floor and many disappeared. Jamie tore open the instructions and uttered a low whistle as a dozen pages of pictographs were revealed. Most of the stick men seemed to be grinning, but one with tight jagged lips warned of a tricky stage. A hapless handyman had a hammer in his hand and seemed to be weeping over a smashed part. Another was on the phone, to IKEA. But overall, the petroglyphs clearly revealed a story of harmony and triumph. One page was a parts list. Ed grabbed it to make sense of the assorted screws, bolts, washers, wedges, queer tools and plugs while Jamie and I fumbled under furniture to find a wayward cylinder with a hole that looked important. I took another sip of my red wine from dinner and chirped, “we need a strategy!”

Ed’s approach was to start at petroglyph number one and work through, trusting IKEA to know the way. He’s an only child and this is reflected in a characteristic of being bossy at times like these. Jamie ignored him, and focussed on the thought bubbles coming out of stickman brains showing how the screws fit together. He fiddled intently as if he was solving a Rubics Cube. As as a firstborn, he revealed strong confidence and leadership qualities, I thought. Father and son glared at each other while tossing each other verbal bones of “nice try”, and “try this”. I hate conflict, a legacy of being a middle child. I also prefer the big picture over petty details. So I sipped my wine and imagined a You Tube story of team Sundvik conquering all 15 steps without a hitch, while pushing back my sense of impending doom.

I was right. About the doom. After an hour of struggle we concluded that the directions were wrong. Not only that, the holes were in ridiculous places. And how could IKEA have provided so many superfluous screws? By this time we had managed to get the crib to wobble upright, surrounding me in bars well past my waist. “Just hop out”, Jamie suggested, gallantly offering a hand. I called for a time out just as Deirdre came into the scene of the carnage, bouncing Cedar on her shoulder. She took a long look, and suggested we start over. Cedar burped.

It was true. We had no way of getting the mattress platform to fit with me stuck there. Even if we got me out and it in, there was nothing to hold it in place. We agreed it was time to get back to basics. Fortunately, removing the end of the crib and turning everything around revealed the cleverly disguised holes and critical joins. Humming and congratulating each other, we whizzed through all the steps and stood back in awe. This Canadian Consumer Product Safety highly-rated Sundvik was one lovely crib, we all agreed. “Let’s just move it into the bedroom and we’re done”.

The story ends well. Our problem-solving skills had now been honed, and we were a high performance team. So we let Jamie lead. He called out the alternate placements of legs and orientations of the monster to the door, while Ed and I grimly did as we were told and Deirdre encouraged us all with “oooh don’t bang the crib” suggestions. With a centimeter to spare, Sandvik slid into the room. Without further ado, Cedar was laid on the mattress like a minnow in an Olympic pool, and promptly went to sleep. “Good job”, Jamie said. “I’m writing a letter of complaint”, Ed answered. “Anyone for another glass of wine?” I offered.

Sundvik is nothing like the drop side contraption that nurtured Jamie. Such child killers have been banned in Canada since 2011, crushed and burned in fact when they show up in second hand stores. This crib’s slats are so close together that it resembles a python cage. There are no bumper pads to soften the look and the inevitable baby bashes. Nor is a duvet or comforter allowed in the modern baby bedroom. Sleep sacks are now the thing. Today’s parents are terrified by the risks of strangling or smothering, to say nothing of splinters and lead paint. I see that babyland is full of danger now, no longer the mellow world I enjoyed as a new mom. Deirdre drew Cedar to her chest protectively and looked at me strangely when I told her how Jamie spent in his first three months on a squishy repurposed loveseat shoved against the marital bed. “We covered it in a plastic sheet”, I added. Then I catch her shocked look and lamely add, “It was a different time”. Not better and not worse, I muse … just different.

Janet Dunnett
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