It’s uncanny; every night as I’m drifting off to sleep the sound of stirring in the room downstairs breaks the silence on the baby monitor. How does he know? Does he sense my brain waves changing? Is this the maternal bond they speak of and if so, why is he using it to torture me?
The shuffling builds to a few soft cries. My heart leaps to attention, my stomach flips and my spirits crash. Again? Really? I hold my breath, will he find the dummy in time and go back to sleep? Please, please, please, I’m so tired from doing this last night, I don’t think I can do this again! A loud cry bellows out, followed by another and another…
I throw back the quilt and swing my legs out of bed, I feel like stomping down the stairs but no, softly, softly I go, quietly into his room with a gentle “Ssshhh” to reassure him mummy is here. Back up dummy is located and quickly shoved in his gob. The arms go up. Still “sshh-ing” but not speaking I stroke his arm and try to encourage him to go back to sleep in his cot, like all the good books say. Gritting the dummy between his teeth his cries become more insistent, arms up reaching out again demanding to be cuddled.
With a sigh I scoop him up and we settle into the rocking chair. Oh I know I shouldn’t pick him up, but I’ve tried resisting and as a result spent hours with a baby screaming blue murder at me, night after night we’ve done that. Then one night I picked him up and he fell soundly asleep in my arms, so soundly just minutes later I was creeping out of the room and back in my own bed. Bliss!
Yes he soon got wise to that one. Now he dozes in my arms with one eye open, I stroke his cheek and his little eyes close in blissful relaxation. Until I stop and they spring right back open, or I continue too long and he gets bored and yes, they spring right back open.
I try every technique with a history of success. I stroke his arm, I stroke his hair, I shush, I stay silent and do nothing, I rock, I sit still, I sing, I hum. I put him back in his cot and do it all over again. I know, I know, I need to be consistent, that’s what the good books say!
Sometimes he torments me and lays silent and still for long enough to build my hopes up. In my head I am making my retreat back up the stairs, I might even allow myself to doze a little so that when I get back to bed in oh, 15 minutes or so? I can fall asleep more easily.
He knows what I’m thinking. It’s that maternal bond again. But he’s evil, and so he waits until I make it to the door and then, bam! He flips onto his back and commences to cry.
I look at the clock, it’s 11:30pm. Worst case scenario I’ll be back in bed by 3:30am, he never lasts more than four hours. Then I’ll be up at 7:00am, well if I’m lucky and he doesn’t wake up at 6am. Can I get through a day at work on that little sleep? I keep having to!
We’re back in the chair only now he’s sitting up and bouncing in my lap like a little chimp, throwing me irresistibly cute smiles and teasing me by resting his head on my shoulder for brief moments before flashing me a cheeky, knowing grin as he sits back up. Yes, he’s evil.
He points to his cot, hoping I’m understanding his cues correctly I put him back in and gently stroke his back, shushing again. He sits up, then stands up. I quietly say “sit down”, he obeys. I quietly say “lay down”, he bends over and attempts a head stand – he doesn’t quite have that down yet. Then he springs back up, grinning. The arms go up again. I lay him back down. He’s up again. I lay him back down. He starts to cry. I relent and we’re back in the rocking chair. I know, I know, I’m too soft on him!
As he alternates between playful chimp and quietly relaxing in my arms seemingly on the verge of sleep for hours, I alternate between calm and understanding mother, and frustrated and sleep deprived nutter. Unfortunately for me husband cannot help in case you’re wondering where he is, Tater’s gets hysterical rather quickly if mummy does not come to him in the night. He steps in to give me time out if I really feel my temper boiling over, but this usually only extends the waking period even further. So mostly I sit in my rocking chair in that quiet, dark room by myself. After mentally rearranging his nursery and imagining scenes in which someone I admire is observing me and commenting on what a wonderfully patient and caring mother I am, I start to lose my marbles. Last night I tried to think it through rationally, determined to get to the bottom of it. What I needed was a plan! If I have a plan then I can be consistent in sticking to it, it will at least make me feel that I have a modicum of control. Husband will be on board and we can work together. Yes, a plan will sort us out.
I hastily hatched my plan. It went like this: Tater’s is most likely awake simply because he wants to be up. So I have to make being up so boring he will prefer to go back to sleep. I read that in one of the books. Yes, I already do it partly in that he is only allowed to either sit on my knee or be in the cot during these mammoth wake-a-thons, but I’m still entertaining him with the singing and the sodding Winnie-the-Pooh light show and music box – “I think I will sing a sleepy song..” Grrr!. So other than being there I will do nothing. Yes I will cuddle him at first, but in a few days I will step back further and not even get him out of the cot. I will be firm but understanding. He won’t like it because he won’t be getting his own way, but soon he will learn that there’s nothing to be awake for and we will all be happier as a result.
I decided to begin right away. It didn’t take long for him to get pissed off with the new regime. Soon he was sat in my lap screaming his head off and trying to shove my arms away from him. I felt like the biggest meanie in the world. Ever. But I had to be strong. This is for his own good too, he’s such a happier child when he’s had proper sleep. Okay so he didn’t want to be on my knee so I put him in his cot, he stood up and screamed. I remained resolutely boring. No talking, no singing, no Pooh Bear light show on the ceiling. Nothing to stay awake for here Mister.
I started to crumble, am I damaging him doing this? Isn’t this just cry-it-out with me in the room? Have I given this enough thought? My now worried husband keeps coming into the room to check everything is okay. Is he sick? Should we give him Calpol? Call an ambulance? My god that kid can paddy! He sounds like a scalded dog!
Finally I scoop him up in my arms and head up to our bedroom, defeated, weak, exhausted. FAIL! It’s not that it even helps half the time, after he’s finished bouncing around on the bed, elbowing and kicking us both in the ribs, head, neck, groin, eventually we all pass out and when I awake a few measly hours later it is with painfully stiff limbs and a cold arse hanging off the edge of the bed. Very ladylike! Dr Sears makes co-sleeping sound so charming too.
And so there we have it, a night in our house. I don’t know what on earth to do. I don’t feel strong enough to sit out the gentler version of crying it out on my own. And we’ve had months of doing something similar and it hasn’t worked at all. So I don’t know, I need another plan!
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