AITA for refusing to sleep in my big boy bed and sleeping on the floor like a heartbroken hero abandoned by society?

Okay so hi. I am 3. My mother (let’s call her Karen because she uses that tone at the grocery store) recently made a deeply controversial design choice and gave me a “big boy bed.”

It has no bars. No boundaries. Just freedom and danger. The vibe? Off. The aesthetic? Adult. The emotional support? Absent. It smells like broken promises and baby powder. I do not like it.

Instead, I sleep on the floor. Not just any floor—the sacred space by the door. The Floor of Dreams. The Floor of Resistance™. The hardwood cradle of truth.

Why? Strategic placement. It’s closer to my exit strategy. It’s where the glow of the hallway hits my eyelids like a warm parental spotlight. It’s the emotional nucleus of this entire establishment. And it’s the only place with the acoustics I need for my pre-nap soliloquies.

Last night, I summoned my loyalists: Puppy Dog, Blanket McSoftface, and Sir Mickey Mouse. Together, we built a fortified cuddle zone shaped like defiance. I arranged them in a defensive configuration that screams, “This toddler bows to no bedtime regime.”

Did I cry? Briefly—like a fallen hero mourning his crib.

Did I scream? Absolutely. It was less tantrum, more opening monologue to Act II.

Did I build a nest of plush revolutionaries and stage a nap-time coup with one eye on the hallway and one on destiny? Yes. Yes, I did.

Mom found me there, mid-fortress. She crouched, sighed, and asked, “Angel, why not sleep in your bed?”

To which I replied, “Because I am not a cog in your capitalist bedtime machine, Karen.”

Now she thinks I’m being difficult. But I think she’s overlooking the poetry of my position. The floor is firm—like my resolve. The door is freedom-adjacent. And the bed? It’s where dreams go to be politely tucked in and silenced.

So yes, I lie here. On the cold, unjust floor. Swaddled in loyalty. Whispering lullabies to the doorknob. Not because I’m difficult—but because I’m different.

AITA for choosing love, escape routes, and theatrical self-expression over a mattress designed to stifle my toddler soul?