I realized, after this week of no sleep till Brooklyn (which is a Beastie Boys reference, in case you didn’t know) how easy it is to romanticize night feedings when there is only one a night. There is nothing romantic or sweet about four or five feedings in a night. Absolutely nothing. I am slowly losing my mind and beginning to fantasize about all sorts of barbaric forms of sleep training. I swear, if we had any alcohol in the house, I would have slathered your gums in it. I get it, is what I am trying to say. Even if I can’t articulate the it.
We decided this morning, because I was destroyed after another sleepless night, that we would do some “training.” Ugh. It is now 3am. The “training” didn’t go so well. You went to sleep without a hitch at 6:15pm. Then at 11:30pm you cried out, I fed you, and went to bed. Then you made a bad choice for everyone involved. You woke up at 1:15am. You couldn’t possibly be hungry so soon so Dad went down for a check in. You got quiet after 5 minutes. I finally let out a deep breath and thought, yes, I can DO this. This isn’t so bad… BUT then 10 minutes later, you cried out again. Hmmm. Dad went down. And on it went until 2:30am. We finally decided that our own way was not working and starting right then and there we would follow to a T the Sleepy Planet book and DVD. I was hoping we could avoid it, but I don’t see any other choice. I get co-sleeping now. I really do.
I got up while your Dad put in ear plugs and waited till 2:30am and a lull in your crying out. Then I went down and nursed you for almost 30 minutes. It was way too long. But I couldn’t help myself. You were so darn cute. You weren’t fully asleep but seemed pretty relaxed so I held you and then laid you back down.
Now I am upstairs watching you sleep on the monitor, your little ruffled butt in the air.
Please honey, please, for the love of God. STAY ASLEEP.
Just stay the f*&$ asleep.