I grit my teeth in the presence of people who spout the following: “We don’t have kids in our bed. Right from the beginning, we decided to draw the line, and we’ve never looked back!” (Often, these are the same people who also say things like, “I just can’t go to bed if the kitchen’s a mess,” or “I just can’t keep the weight on!”)
I grit my teeth because I know that the reason I am still writing about sleep, thirteen (!) years into parenting, is because I have let them into the bed. Sidney has her eye on a Hello Kitty purse. I told if she stays in her own bed for seven straight nights, then the purse is hers. Frankly, I can offer the kid a Lamborghini, because I know the chance of her staying out of my bed for two nights in a row is ZERO.
Last night, as she is wont to do, she came racing in around three AM, as though being chased by something. She asked permission to enter the bed (this is a new twist, none of the others did this), I said yes, as I do each night, because I am weak. She then wedged herself in. She was soon followed by Fiona who had a nightmare. At some point, as I was hanging off the side of the bed, I decided that I needed to find somewhere else to spend the night. I took my eyemask, my pillow, and my book, and went to their room.
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich might not seem like ideal middle of the night reading, but honestly, I can’t believe I’ve never read it, and I can’t put it down.
Read this. I can’t promise you won’t have nightmares (you will), but if you are up at four AM because you’ve been edged out of your bed by a four and six year old, one of whom will only FALL asleep at night if one of her parents is lying next to her, holding her hand, rubbing her cheek, and singing “You Are My Sunshine” on a continuous loop, then I think you can handle it….