Admit it. Go ooooon, fess up. It’s just you and me – and a couple of other readers – and maybe the whole interweb if this were to go viral. But this is a safe space. There is a competition amongst parents out there, particularly mothers, and it is a fierce battleground of one-upmanship. It’s called “My Baby Sleeps Better Than Yours.” Don’t fool yourself Moms, that’s why you’ll see Facebook statues about how little Jimmy slept 14 hours last night, even changing his own nappy in the night TWICE and then falling back to sleep. Little Jimmy is the perfect child and well, that must just make us, by sheer coincidence, perfect parents. We need other Mothers to know how truly awesome we are, ahem, I mean our baby is. And for whatever reason, your baby’s sleep pattern is the true test.
I can say this because this was me months ago. Sweet, naïve little me. Bless her heart.
Then we dropped the dream feed. And then we flew to America and had a 5 hour time difference. And when in the world do you feed a jetlagged baby for the two weeks you’ll be in another country? And then we just caved because it’s easier. Yeah, I said it — We caved, people.
So, she’s in the bed half of the night. The half where I just want my sweet sleep and would rather bite off my own toenails after walking barefoot through a field with fresh manure than to get out from under my duvet. But she’s there. And genuinely, most of the time we don’t really mind it except when we have a night like we did last night. Then we mind. Oh, how we mind.
You should know that there is a moment, a very fleeting moment with The Duchess where when she wakes up, if you can get her dummy to her within that window, she will sweetly drift off into a deep, suckle-induced sleep. If you miss that window, sweet Lord, prepare to pay.
Me: (Shakes The Native) Wake up, I can’t find her dummy.
The Native: (Grunts) What?
Me: (Patience gone) I can’t find her dummy. Help me look for it.
The Native: (reaches out with a closed fist and replies serenely) It’s here.
Me: (Opens his fist. It’s empty. Smacks his hand away). NO.IT.IS.NOT.
The Native: (looking startled and mildly upset) It isn’t? I dreamt it was in my hand.
Me: Ya think!?
By the time this conversation had ended – that window was irrefutably shut. And locked. And the key was hidden in a kitchen drawer somewhere along with the sandwich bags.
After posts in the past about how great my husband is, which he is, I hope this assures you that our relationship is nothing but normal. Abnormal even, especially when I have transformed into my Mombie alter ego.