When I gave birth last year, my husband and I were VERY clear about the fact that we would not co-sleep. Nope. Uh-uh. No, sir. “Our marriage bed is ours alone”, “He needs to learn independence” — these are some things we told ourselves even when our son was a month old. For my husband, it’s the only parenting style he knows. For me, to be honest, after the long days of maternity leave and the rhythm of breastfeeding and baby caring, I welcomed and needed the, well, adult ‘energy’.
We even got ourselves a sleep coach who taught us all about routines and schedules. We knew our son wanted to snuggle in between us and could always sleep faster when burrowed deep in one parent’s armpit or splayed on one parent’s chest, but we wanted him to grow accustomed to sleeping alone in his bed. And for a while, he did. Fast forward to now:
Humble pie, right? 😂 We were as smug as a bug in a rug until we, umm, had to share the rug.
I think I know how it happened, and when. My husband — who had been running our small businesses and previously worked on his own time — got himself a job in BGC and found himself out of the house for long hours. He would come back to a sleeping baby who he had barely enough time to be with in the morning. So when Small Jan would cry for his midnight feed, Big Jan would scoop him up and put him next to us. It was his time with his son.
But sooner than soon, “baby energy” was all over our bed, along with toys, milk and random drops of pee. And of late, this baby energy also moves and kicks like crazy. And bends it like Bekema. (Haha. Yay me, good one.) This baby energy has colonized our bed completely. Husband barely gets sleep — last night, he actually moved to the sofa bed in the nursery after a particularly strong kick from our little tyrant. Me, I wake up earlier than I need to. A baby shaking you at 5am tends to lead to that outcome. And owing to all these, mornings feel stressed and harried.
This is not going to be a post with some big-ticket message at the end on how the nights are long but the days are short blah blah. This is a post about pee on the pillow, a happy meal toy poking up one’s spine, and all the other oddball 2am things about parenthood that don’t get written in hallmark cards.
And a shoutout to fellow harried parents just to say: hang in there, you’re not alone.