In the last trimester of my first pregnancy, I lost count of times other mothers jokingly told me to enjoy my sleep while I could. Giggles were shared and we’d make light of the fact that I was up every few hours to pee anyway, baby residing on my bladder and all. But honestly, how bad could it be? Brutal. Really, really brutal.
I thought my first son Baker was a fussy sleeper but I realise now he was probably more in the mainstream category. So as I entered into motherhood for the second time I thought, I got this. I’m good. Jones arrived and I did things differently. More baby wearing, gentler parenting.
I had no intention of letting him cry it out. I know the difference between a grizzle and that moment of complete silence in between strong tears. That, I cannot do. Sleeping wouldn’t be a stand off. It just had to work for both of us.
Fast forward to today. He’s 10-months-old. I sat rocking him in the feeding chair after he’d been asleep for 29 minutes. I tried to resettle him. I tried to get him back into his cot four times in 20 minutes.
He’d be dead asleep in my arms and as soon as I moved him, he’d wake up. He’d burped, farted, had a fresh nappy and was fed. In the last 10 months I’d tried everything.
Dream feeds, formula feeds, more solids, less solids, chiropractor, osteopath, bat cave dark room, my husband putting him to bed, self settling, white noise, rain drops, my t-shirt on a giant elephant in the cot to mimic me being there… it was endless.