Inspirations
Sleeping Through The Night.

Before I had my son, I had some definite opinions on child rearing. I would not, for instance, let my life change too dramatically. I would see that our child fit into our lives, not the other way around. I was particularly inflexible when it came to the concept of a "family bed". I was going to have my son, then immediately lose all the extra baby weight, plus the couple of extra pounds I had put on before getting pregnant. I would be every inch the sexy wife/lover figure I was before children. Our child would be well adjusted, and best served in his own, brand new over-priced crib.

My only sister and her husband had embraced the family bed route, and now they were regretting it. Or so I believed. There were now four of them, squashed up each night in one queen sized bed. I scolded her for it. "What could you be thinking?" "Where is the romance?" "Kids need boundaries- you need priorities", I sputtered and muttered absolutes with the moral certitude reserved for the smugly ignorant.

"It makes them feel secure," she explained once-lamely, I thought.

I just couldn’t understand it. Then, Harrison was born 14 ½ weeks premature, and all my absolutes flew out the delivery room window.

In the NICU, he was everybody’s child but my own. Those first days, sitting beside his isolette, I’d see his fragile body snuggled against receiving blanket rolls, and then beanie babies- but never my arms. It was agony. I never imagined the physical pull I would experience, to hold my child against my skin and smell his sweetness-to claim him as mine. I could only touch his little hands through the tiny window. I would hold his fingers and tell him to be strong, and to survive. Leaving him each night went against my every instinct.

Three months later, with Harrison home safely, gaining weight and thriving, I reverted to my old rigid self. At first. Harrison slept in a bassinet until he was too big, and then he was in that fine new crib in his own room. At night, we would lay him on his back, propped between wedges and wrapped securely in his blanket. I did not check his breathing obsessively, even as new mothers of full term babies are apt to do. I felt confident that this strong miraculous babe was impervious to harm now. Things were going to get back to normal. I could even start losing that weight- becoming a babe again myself. Only…

I wasn’t normal. Frankly, I was shell-shocked. I stopped being able to sleep through the night. I was never a worrier, but now I brooded. While my husband and child snored, I lay awake, obsessing about everything. Why wasn’t he catching up developmentally? When it became obvious that Harrison was going to need Early Intervention, and therapists, and extra attention- when he suddenly became a child with "special needs", I had more to obsess about. Forget the fact that daily he was a beautiful, happy healthy boy with my eyes, dad’s dimples, and a smile that was surely swiped from an angel.

I had to worry about whatever it was that would make that smile fade. I would not relax, could not stay asleep. I did not know how to fix that.

I wasn’t going to take sleeping pills- what if he needed me? I tried tea, meditation, prayer…yet each night I awoke in fear. Then we had a really hot summer.

We rent a small apartment, with air conditioning in our bedroom only. My husband has always had to sleep with the bedroom the temperature of a meat locker, as if he will otherwise rot. I have gotten used to it, after 10 years of whining about my cold feet. Harrison’s room has a fan, but it has become evident that he has inherited his father’s warm blood. My husband is secretly pleased that Harrison has his "family curse"- (hey, that makes two against one when the fighting over room temps occur), and he insisted that Harrison sleep with us during the hot nights. It seemed the reasonable thing to do.