I remember vividly the day my family moved from Cedar Rapids, Iowa to Chicago. I was all of ten years old and like any child would be, excited to see the city. My father had received a promotion at the bank he had worked at since well before I was born and we were now leaving the relative comfort of our home for an apartment on Michigan Avenue. Driving into the city was almost surreal, and although sullen over leaving my friends behind, I was enthralled with the possibility of great opportunities that lay ahead. All the wonder and amazement I was experiencing after having traveled through the concrete canyons of the Windy City was soon overshadowed by the news that my father decided to impart to me the moment we entered our new domicile. I would be sharing a room with my younger brother.
I recall the feeling one might have if a death sentence were handed down to him over some petty offense. The fact that they wanted me, a sophisticated young lad who was sure than manhood was only weeks away (and had been for years), to share my personal space with this unworldly little snot-nosed brat was unbearable. Looking back, I now have a great appreciation for sharing a room with my brother and what I learned from the experience, but at the time, I would have preferred a root canal. Although we rarely got along, it didn't take long to get used to the situation. Still, I never got used to sleeping on our bunk bed. Of course, we fought tooth and nail over who would get the top bunk. Once I established dominance, I was free to climb the small metal ladder to my throne on high and become master of all I surveyed in my miniature kingdom below. Unfortunately, my throne left much comfort to be desired, and I was told on more than one occasion that my brother wasn't too happy with his vassel's parcel either. Although the bed was new, it creaked and swayed with the slightest movement and had mattresses that I was certain were made of stone. I became resigned to life with my brother, but neither of us could reconcile with that awful bed. To give you an idea of just how poorly constructed bunk beds were at that time, I left home (and the bunk bed) to join the military at eighteen and on my first night of basic training, felt that I was sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom at the White House.
It's now a lifetime later and I have two boys of my own. My wife and I recently had a new addition, and she has taken one of their rooms, leaving them with one to share. Recalling with no particular fondness my bed of the past, I set out to find a bunk bed that would at least allow the boys some comfort during sleep. I was pleasantly surprised to find a manufacturer who makes nice beds that actually sleep like a bed should. When searching, I found beds that have storage, full sized mattresses and are solid and sturdy. After careful consideration, I purchased a nice model and brought it home. The minute I had it set up, the age old struggle for top bunk began and I stood there with a grin on my face while my sons argued over who would be king of the hill. While that matter has been settled, they still don't always get along. They do, however, get a good nights sleep. I'm glad bunk beds have changed, because boys haven't.