When meeting new mums or in fact coming in contact to anyone when you have a baby in tow, you will instantly be asked about sleep. How is he sleeping? Sleeping through yet?
I would like to have a card to hand out to people saying; ‘No, he is not sleeping through yet, nor do I expect him to in the near futrure.’
This sleep-obsession is starting to grate on me just a little. I will have the same conversation at lease once a day from Monday to Friday and be given ‘advice’ on how to cure this ailment.
The way I see it is my son will do what he wants to do and there is little I can do to change it. I have tried dream-feeding (takes 3 times as long and he just wakes earlier for the next feed), food loading at bedtime, a good strong bedtime routine of food, bath, massage and bed. We are even trying a little controlled crying but alas, my son still wakes at about 1am and then some afterwards. I have just accepted this as the status quo and when I stopped worrying, I found myself less tired and stressed about the whole ‘sleep’ issue.
Although I wish someone would explain this to my mother and a lesser extent my mother-in-law. The thing about Grandparents is that they can’t really remember back the 30-odd years to when they last did this and have blocked out the hard work parts, as you have to do else no one would ever have a second. So, when telling my mother that ‘no, he still wakes for a feed once a night’, I was greeted with ‘well you are doing something wrong. What you need to do is…’ at which point my sleep deprived mind turned off for 5 minutes and then snapped. Frankly, I do not care what I did when I was an age which my mother can’t remember, it makes no difference to what my son does. So I take a deep breath and carry on thankful there is a comfortable distance of around 200 miles between us right now.
The point of this is, it always surprises me how little sleep you can actually operate on. I’ve already forgotten the total non-sleep of the first 6 weeks and right now, I feel positively human. Although a day without coffee seems like a day without oxygen.
Yet, last night I bought a mid-priced bottle of wine from the shop across the road, ready to welcome my husband home with something other than being passed out on the sofa in my pyjamas. By the time I had crossed the street, opened my door and dumped the wine in the fridge, I had indeed forgotten that I had bought red, not white.