When I finally crawl into bed at night, I hear the “Ding ding!” of bells at a boxing ring. The fight is on. My darling son and I will battle for sleep all night long. Collin is insistent on being attached to my chest, whether to nurse (in his sleep, mind you) or to use it as a pillow. He puts the phrase “sleep like a baby” to the test, and will systematically wake me every couple of hours to nurse without opening an eye, himself. We received a beautiful co-sleeper from my parents as a gift, a little baby bed that attaches to our bed, but found that everybody slept better if the baby was in bed with us. The only problem is, our little angel turns into a farting, snoring, pee-soaked bed hog who somehow becomes as hot as molten lava and kicks me to death every time I get comfortable.
I knew something had to give. I longed for him to sleep in his co-sleeper, but to my amazement, every time I tried to put him in it, it was me who had a problem with it. Suddenly, the bed became a vast, lonely, babyless oasis, and I nearly jumped out of my skin every time Collin so much as peeped. The subject of bed-sharing came up in my new parents’ group, and another mother shared a story identical to mine. I told her what happened to me every time I attempted the co-sleeper.
“Sounds like you’re not ready,” she said.
So, I put some thought into that. She was right, Collin wasn’t the only one who needed to be “ready” for the co-sleeper. I never thought that becoming a mother would overwhelm me so completely, taking hostage everything that used to be normal and comfortable. We’re still working on the co-sleeper. Now, the baby will start the night asleep by himself, but always end it right back in our bed, attached to me. I guess I’ll take that, for now.