I have to be honest here, I never wanted to co-sleep with my children.
Not because I disagree with that philosophy, but because I can’t sleep with them in the same bed with me.
My son was born prematurely and was roughly the size of a cantaloupe when we brought him home. After spending eight nights in the NICU, we were terrified to bring this small infant in to our bed with us, for fear that we’d roll over him.
Or worse, that my postpartum hunger might mistake him for a pizza and gobble him up as a midnight snack.
Plus, our house was small enough that I could see his crib from where I slept. Our room wasn’t big enough to accommodate a bassinet or even a co-sleep attachment, so the situation didn’t lend itself to co-sleeping when he was young.
Once my daughter was born, we tried having her sleep in the room with us when we brought her home. But, much like her brother, she grunted loudly all night long and couldn’t get settled, whether she was in a bassinet, or in the crook of my arm, or on my chest. So, to try and encourage more restful sleep for all of us, we put her back in her crib.
Sure, she protested as we expected. And yes, getting up a couple few dozen times a night and climbing the stairs to her room was a pain in the ass, but it also meant that in the few handfuls of minutes when she was quiet, I could get solid sleep to recharge.
We were blessed with a first child that slept really well, and to this day, he conks out after we close his door. He’s been known to sleep through full-on fire alarms. When he was in Kindergarten, he used to ask us to “sleep over” in his bed with him from time to time, and occasionally we’d take him up on it.
Was it the most restful night? Not exactly. Sure, there was an encroachment of space and the scattered kick or two. But it wasn’t horrible.
A few weeks ago on vacation, the pull-out sofa bed that Jon and I planned on sleeping in the hotel room looked like it had been occupied by a couple of two-ton wooly mammoths prior to our stay. Lumpy and thin enough to see the springs through the mattress, it didn’t give off the impression of obtaining a fantastic night’s sleep.
We had tried putting the kids in the same bed so that Jon and I could claim the open one once we were ready to retire, but five minutes after bedtime, my son came marching out to the living room and declared “This isn’t working.” So, it was decided that we’d each sleep with one of the kids.
My daughter isn’t a “once her head hits the pillow” kind of sleeper. She needs more time to unwind. She’s been known to stage full-length ballets in her bed after lights out. Or launch one-woman-show monologues to her stuffed animals for 45 minutes.
I assumed that once she actually calmed her body down and fell asleep, she was solidly in slumber.
But that would be a very wrong assumption.
Don’t get me wrong, crawling in to bed next to her limp, sleeping body was adorably cute and heartwarming. And the first time she snuggled up to me and whispered “Mama” in her sleep with a grin on her face was touching.
After that, the events of the night convinced me I will never co-sleep ever again.
The prefix “co” in co-sleep indicates that both of us would be sleeping, right? Yet, it didn’t feel so symbiotic.
She was like a heat seeking missile, finding me no matter how far away I scooted. During the night I clung to the side of the mattress with one half of my body, unable to effectively roll her away from me, but not quite lucid enough to make the smart decision to get up and move to the other side of the bed.
And then, there was the kicking. My goodness, the kicking. And the nudging. And the elbows and knees in my back, face, chest, throat. I do believe that she was trying to beat the crap out of me.
I don’t think I slept longer than 15-minutes at a time before being pounded like a whack-a-mole. With each hit, I found myself praying for daylight. And when it finally came and my sleeping beauty opened her eyes in the morning, I asked her how she slept.
Certainly, she couldn’t have had a restful sleep, right? I mean, with all that movement? For crying out loud, she fell out of the bed at one point!
“Good. Really good.”
Well, at least one of us did.
Much to her dismay, I moved to the pull-out sofa the rest of the trip, grateful that despite the 15-degree slant I was sleeping on, and the coil marks on my torso when I woke, I know I’d at least escape being pummeled in my sleep.
Still, there’s a part of me that wishes it would have worked out. I wanted it to. I had visions of my daughter and I cuddling and spooning during a rejuvenating night of sleep. Perhaps one day in the future we’ll try it again.
When she’s older. And I’m more sedated.
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