If you had asked me five years ago how I felt about co-sleeping, I would have looked you straight in the eye, tried to determine if you were insane, and considered if I thought you had a tendency towards violence when angry. If I decided it was safe, I would have gone on to tell you all about how stupid co-sleeping is. "Co-sleeping is for wimps who can't say 'no' to their kids!" I would have declared. "Co-sleeping is dangerous!" I would have maintained, thinking of all of the cases of a child who died when smothered by a sleeping parent. "I would NEVER do that!" I would have said.
I was stupid.
If you were to ask me the same question now, my reply would be something like, "Co-sleeping? Ooooh . . . I LOVE co-sleeping!" I might mutter something about how I'm really glad some harebrained "expert" decided to give a fancy name to that which I call My Kid Owns Me Between 9pm and 6am.
Because, uh . . . my kid owns me between 9pm and 6am. Truly. It's not because I don't know how to say "no" or because I'm weak or because I haven't tried like crazy to get the kid to stay in her bed. It's because the kid has her own opinions on the whole thing, and damn if she doesn't have two legs that help her carry out the actions her little brain desires.
For the first year of her life, Alexis slept in her crib. She had a bedtime routine, never slept in our bed, and generally had great sleeping habits. Except that she never really slept through the night. Ever.
I tried the whole cry it out thing when she woke up fussing. Alexis rewarded me by figuring out how to get so upset that she could puke at will. It's kind of hard to convince a kid to quit crying and go back to sleep when they are covered in their own slimy vomit.
I gave her means to sooth herself. Pacifiers and stuffed animals and music all helped, but DUDES, the kid doesn't need sleep. She never has. (See photo in previous post--she was 3-weeks old at the time and ALWAYS FREAKIN AWAKE.) (REALLY. ALWAYS AWAKE.)
The always awake thing ate away at my soul for two years. Lots of brain cells died during that phase. Mostly mine. Then we moved into the World of the Toddler Bed. I became THAT parent who spent half the night escorting a wandering kid back to her bed. It took her a few weeks to figure out that she could escape, but once she did, she was like a college kid backpacking across Europe--she left no corner of her world unexplored. We wore a rut in the carpet between the two bedrooms as she tried to sneak into our bed five to ten times per night and I escorted her back five to ten times per night. It went on for months.
(I should note one very important detail--Mr. Husband has always slept through every frakkin second of the night-time drama. Oh, to be male and deaf . . .)
When it became clear that she wasn't getting the hint, I started locking her in her room. Oh, yes, I did. I tried baby gates and locking the door and force fields and telepathy but NOTHING WORKED. Either the Littlest Ninja would break through my barricades or she would get so incredibly pissed off that I had the nerve to expect her to stay in her room that she would torture me. Loudly. For hours.
People, she once stood at a baby gate shaking it like a rabid howler monkey, screaming at the top of her lungs, and bawling like I had kicked her puppy in the face. For. Two. Hours. I was so tired after two hours of listening to her test her ability to break the sound barrier that I gave up.
I just plain gave up.
It turns out that it's easier to sleep through a kid kicking me in the face than it is to sleep through a kid screaming at the top of her lungs.
She wants to cuddle. She swears she needs to cuddle. She gets to cuddle.
I just hope she escorts herself back out of our bed by the time she starts college. If not, things could get a bit awkward.
