Cloudya

Looking back on pictures of my son’s first day of life, I can see shadows of the baby he is now. The way his bottom lip curls out when he’s asleep, making him look like a disgruntled old man. The way his brow furrows when he’s taking something new in. The way one arm shoots up in the air, little fist curled tight, whenever he stretches. All of these things were already there that first day, and I just didn’t see them because I didn’t know him yet. He was a whole, and the individual parts got lost in the sum.

It makes me wonder about the seeds of who he will be as a toddler, a child, a teenager, an adult… Are all of these present in him now? Will I flip through these pictures I take now - the one of him beaming, all gums and dimples, the one of him wide-eyed with wonder at his first bath, the one of him sleeping with his arms flung out in unchecked abandon - and will I say, “Yes, there he was. My boy. He was with me all along.”

I was reading some excerpts from the No Cry Sleep Solution when I came across this gem - you have to want a change.  You have to really want to change your baby’s sleeping habits, or everything will stay the same.

Right now we are in a less than ideal situation.  Brandon sleeps in a travel crib in the living room. Ken stays up with him from 8 pm to 2 am, waking me 2-3 times during that stretch for feedings.  At 2am we switch off.  Ken goes to bed, and I stay up with B for the remainder of the night.  Sometimes I nap on the couch, but it’s rare, and never for longer than 20 minutes.  Any stirring, sighing, or slight change in the breathing pattern of the little one jerks me awake.  So mostly I play iPhone games, catch up on social networks, read, or watch TV.  I miss sleeping through the night, and I miss sharing a bed with my husband.  But do I miss these things enough?

After some soul searching I realized that the answer is no.  Private, personal time has always been essential to my mental health, and finding that when you have a baby is rare.  I treasure my quiet pre-dawn hours of solitude.  They are my lifeblood, and I’m not at all sure that I’m ready to give them up.

But more importantly, there is the Brandon factor.

Could I sleep, knowing there wasn’t a watchful eye on guard making sure he takes his next breath?  And then the next one?  And the next one?  Do I want to give up nursing him to sleep before he outgrows the habit on his own?  Do I want to teach him not to sleep all safe and warm and snuggled in my arms, little head resting on my shoulder, little hands pawing drowsily at my face?

The answer to all of these questions is yes.  But not yet.  Not yet.

He will have a lifetime of independence, and I will have decades of proudly watching him pull away from me and be everything that I know that he can be.  He will learn not only to do things on his own, but to value the self-worth and self-esteem that comes with not having to rely on others.

These moments, though?  These moments when he looks to me for warmth and comfort and security?  These few months where he needs and demands and roots and snuffles?  These moments are mine.  I’m not ready to trade them in for sleep yet.