I may have mentioned this (three or four hundred times) already: Sam is now sleeping full time in our bed. The co-sleeper is no more and in its place is a play yard. No, that isn’t true; we converted it into a play yard, which we don’t keep in the same place at all.
There is something very wrong with the infant sleep equipment industry. I can even tell you exactly what is wrong with it: the only option is a crib. Newborns can sleep in a co-sleeper or bassinet or moses basket. These options work till about three months, or six months if you are like me and really push it. It may or may not be safe to have a baby in an adult bed at any time (I am not going to get into the conflicting opinions on that and it really isn’t something I want to discuss). Bed rails are available to keep small children from rolling out of the bed, but they are safety approved for two years and up. Leaving a year and a half with nowhere to put the baby except in a crib. Or, you know, between the adults in the big bed.
First of all, I don’t have a crib. I hate them; I can’t afford one; I have absolutely nowhere to put one. Second of all, I like having Sam sleep close to me. (Sort of. I also kind of hate it. See below.) Third of all, what the fuck? How is it possible that a crib is the only option?
As I know I’ve said before, Sam sleeps great. When prying relations inquire, I can honestly say that he sleeps through the night. It’s just that I don’t, because he sleeps only if there is a nipple in his mouth or close enough to put in his mouth at a moment’s notice.
Last night I was technically asleep for about eight hours, but I feel as though I slept on a bus. You know how it is — no matter how much sleep you actually got, you aren’t the least bit rested, and there’s a crick in your neck from trying not to fall over on your seat mate. Sam went to bed late because we took him to Stitch ‘n Bitch again and apparently he requires at least an hour and a half of unwinding after a visit to the Farmers Market. At least his mood was good, even if I was half asleep while he climbed all over me and maybe I cried a little bit. Really, it was fine — we watched My Name Is Earl, which we’ve rented from the video store, and I stole loving glances at my knitting which I was too tired to pick up.
When he finally fell asleep, fighting the whole time, we went to bed too. Two nights ago, he spent the whole night in a repeat pattern of latching on, pulling off, rolling over, and searching for milk in Will’s pillow. Last night was even worse: he would kick the blanket off, kick until his head was between both our pillows, and then start screaming as he rooted around for milk. I reacted in the most rational and reasonable way imaginable: I cursed a lot in my sleep as I attempted to pull him back down to boob level with a bum wrist. I didn’t even remember any of this when I woke up, but Will cheerfully reminded me. And when I say cheerfully, I mean grumpily, because he can’t sleep through all of this any better than I can.
I’ve always needed a lot of sleep. Ten hours nights were totally normal and I never said no to an extra hour’s lie-in or a nap. I like to be warm when I sleep, but not constricted, so I tend to wear pajama pants and a t-shirt or tank top. The blanket must cover my shoulders. I also need space and the ability to roll over at will. I haven’t had a blanket up past my waist or more than a foot and a half of the bed in over a month.
Oh well. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I hope there are duvets in heaven.