Taken from: http://www.edmontonjournal.com/Oscar+been+winning+night+crying+game/4510909/story.html
You know when something is really bad, but then there's a new bad that makes the old bad seem not so bad at all?
I'm there.
Oscar used to sleep so beautifully. Which I can't believe I just said. Because my son has never slept well.
Compared to now, though, his sleep patterns at three months were bliss. A few times over Christmas he slept six, even seven hours at a stretch. I'd wake up in the night, wondering why he wasn't screaming his bald head off for a feeding, or lie there awake in anticipation. Jonathan would go and check our baby was still alive.
Those were the good old days.
Now, at six months, Oscar's ability to sleep has deteriorated such that we delight in even one hour of sweet silence. The baby falls asleep in my arms, but the second I lay him down, he complains vehemently, despite his obvious fatigue, and won't conk out until I pick him up again.
My nostrils, I fear, are flared for good; my jaw has set into a concrete clench.
At first, I blamed this new nighttime folly on Oscar's two new bottom teeth. The pediatrician told me otherwise. Worsening sleep patterns at this age are expected, he said, and it's not teething.
"Your baby has this lovely memory of falling asleep in your arms," he explained while measuring my son's head circumference in the examining room. "And you're not there when he wakes up. He's looking for you."
Oh he's looking, all right. The second I go into Oscar's room, his shrieking tomato face melts into a warm and mischievous grin, as if to say, "Hey Mom! Great to see you! P.S.: I win!"
Desperate, shattered, our molars ground down to the gums, Jonathan and I decided to dive headfirst into CIO: the cry-it-out method (much to the chagrin of our dear neighbours). Apparently we're suckers for punishment, though, fingers crossed, the pain will be short-term.
The literature on baby sleep is overwhelming, fascinating, contradictory. Some suggest your life should revolve around the child's 90-minute sleep cycle. Some say a focus on daytime sleeping will solve nighttime sleeping woes. Some insist you soothe your child to sleep, while others say letting your baby bawl himself into shape is the best solution. Of course the vast number of books are a testament to the market: Parents will pay anything, buy anything, to get their kid to sleep.
When you go out with your baby, everyone wants to know three things. His name. His age. And is he sleeping through the night. Cashiers, dentists, taxi drivers, mechanics, everyone's itching to find out.
You tell them, "No, he wakes up a lot." You smile thinly, force out a chuckle because otherwise you'll burst into tears.
They give you those sympathetic, glad-I'm-not-you eyes. And then begins the boasting. "Mine slept through the night at two months."
Fabulous. Like I want to know how easy it was for you. If your kid has or is sleeping through the night, please, lie to me. Spin me something nightmarish that will make me believe my kid's sleeping habits aren't as awful as I know they are. Spare me your WonderBaby bragging session. I know you're trying to give new parents hope, but all it does is make us wonder what we're doing wrong.
So. About the crying. As I write this, it is 12: 50 a.m. and I've just gone in to shush my wide-eyed, howling son for the umpteenth time. I am not to feed him or pick him up, the sleep experts tell me. I am just to keep returning to his crib to reassure him I haven't abandoned him. Which of course is increasingly tempting. It's a good thing he's cute.
When we first left Oscar to cry, I felt guilty and mean. But as the experiment wore on, my negative self-talk mellowed into steely resilience, a determination fuelled by hope all three of us will, one day, get the sleep we require, simultaneously.
There are pros to this method. From an exercise point of view, I'm doing a lot of stairs up to Oscar's room, which means I'm burning off all the orange cake, whipped cream and Montreal bagels that somehow found their way into my belly.
But there are cons, too, not including the sleep deprivation.
Only a few days ago, I was inspecting my deflated, stretch-mark-striped bosom in a bathing suit, the result of weaning the boy at six months. Within 24 hours of embarking on our CIO adventure, my letdown reflex went berserk at the sound of Oscar's wails and my left breast expanded into a stoney pomelo.
Now I'm lopsided, in agony and, worst of all, tempted to bed-share with the baby latched on to relieve some of the pressure.
"I'm sure you'll make it soon," my mother-in-law writes in an encouraging note from England. "Just don't give up, and make sure you have a plentiful supply of cotton wool -for your ears." (As opposed to stuffing it in Oscar's gob, she infers.) It's funny how, as babies, crying is our sole means of communication, while as adults, we'll do anything not to cry in front of others. Especially in professional situations. Imagine if, instead of requesting holiday time via e-mail, you just sat at your desk and cried until your boss came over.
No, no, the only ones crying at their desks are the ones with children at home who aren't sleeping. My loving husband among them. Bless him for not using earplugs, for reminding me we are in this together.
ewithey@edmontonjournal.com
twitter.com/lizwithey