I don’t put babies down for naps.
I thought, with the second, I’d be more stringent–that I would start training her for crib sleeping earlier; that I wouldn’t be able to sit and hold her every time she napped.
But, here I am, eight months in and still letting my baby sleep on me.
Because, contrary to my own beliefs before I had her, I actually don’t have the time (or the energy or the willpower–take your pick) to focus on getting her into the crib.
I’ve sat down in that rocking chair, nursing and rocking, shushing my toddler, gingerly placing the baby down, shushing my toddler, gently patting the baby’s back while simultaneously shushing both baby and toddler, grabbing the toddler and dashing out the door, carefully closing that door.
To get a whopping thirty minutes of baby-free time.
So, to me, it just isn’t worth fighting instinct. She’ll eventually sleep in her crib–even Lily, known for her troubled sleeping habits, finally figured out that the crib isn’t evil.
So, for now, I let the Babiest sleep in my arms.
I sweat. I let my arm fall asleep. I let my legs fall asleep. I stay, slightly hunched, my back and shoulders aching, daring not to move too much, daring not to speak too loudly.
Feeling the weight of my little one; hearing her steady breath; feeling her little fingers tapping, her nails scratching; watching her little chin quiver in her sleep (is there anything sweeter than that phantom sucking?).
I give up hours of my life to sit on the couch so my small one can sleep.
Every day, three times a day, I become a human mattress.
And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
(Well, maybe just a little.)
[Thanks to my friend Alex for the hilarious and accurate turn-of-phrase “human mattress” and happy Halloween!]