There’s a couple of things you figure out pretty quickly as a new parent. Top of the list? No one can fully prepare you for what a colossal mind fuck it is. Kids will screw with you long before they even realize it’s delightful to do so.
I’ve mentioned before Huggy Bear’s sleeping habits have deteriorated. We’ve reached a new low. For some reason he’s unable to sleep unless he’s basically attached to me in some manner.
It’s making me fucking bonkers.
I’ve spent the past three or four days wracking my brain attempting to appease the little monster. I’ve systematically eliminated things in his room that could be bothersome or not quite like our bedroom – which he obviously prefers. I’ve unplugged night lights. I’ve tried white noise. I’ve tried music and lullabies. I’ve messed around with temperature and humidity. I’ve checked for bug bites and diaper rashes.
I always walk him to sleep. Now however, the MINUTE his precious little head hits the crib, his eyes pop open and he starts flailing about and screaming. It’s like a scene from a B-rate horror movie complete with Mommy, eyes sleep deprived and hollow, ready to flee in sheer terror.
Perhaps the kid can appreciate the high thread count sheets and the down feather-bed we have on our “big bed.” Hopefully, he’s not freaking out in protest solely because his crib is lacking these marvelous accoutrements? At one point last night I even pondered the feasibility of painting and papering his nursery to look identical to our bedroom? Or better yet, maybe just make our room his nursery? Yep. That’s how badly he’s blowing my mind.
Last night I paraded him around the house in his sleepy wrap until 12:30. I made sure he was asleep in that sucker for over an hour until I attempted to oh so delicately get him into the crib. And BAM!! Eyes popped open, squirming, and screaming ensued.
I thought maybe I could just get him a fresh diaper and all would be forgiven. The whole time I was fumbling around in the dark (see above re: screwing with the night-light), his eyes were closed. He was definitely tired.
I left the nursery, eager to watch a few minutes of the end of that train-wreck of a show Kate + Eight. I never really watched much, but it felt necessary for my own damaged parental ego to see something else potentially implode. I no sooner slipped out of my hideous, but now necessary for pacing the floor, Crocs, when I could hear him wailing.
Exasperated, I did exactly what I’ve done the past 3 nights. Something, the one thing, I swore I would NEVER do before he started this shit: I plucked him from the crib, put him on my lap, and we fell asleep in the “big bed.” Him propped up on my leg and me fully upright. About one hour later, I attempted to put him back in the crib. No dice. An hour after that? Absolutely not. And again at 5:30 this morning. Ech. Each time, we retreat together back to the big bed.
What is this kid’s major malfunction? Hell, if I had the option to sleep alone, for as long as I wanted, in near perfect silence and darkness, heaven knows I would avail myself to that opportunity every time. This stubborn child of mine? Seems he would far rather sleep wedged against my slightly sweaty, pasty thigh for hours on end; in the company of his occasionally flatulent Father; surrounded by shedding cats.
The kid is sick. . .And I’m not having much success finding a cure.
Oh I’ve consulted the “experts.” What I’m finding is, these sick bastards actually ADVOCATE co-sleeping. As far as I’m concerned co-sleeping is more succinct way to say: “Fucking capitulate. Every night this baby is going to screw with your head until you relent. Granted you still won’t be sleeping, but hey, at least the kid shut up. Repeat until he’s three.”
What am I going to do?
Let him sleep on the dog bed?
If I figure it out, I’ll happily share the answer. Until then, I’ll be upright in my bed, uneasily dozing off with the co-sleeping tyrant butterball in my lap and colossal confusion in my head.