During pregnancy, one of the things I was vehemently against was bed-sharing with the baby. No way, Jose, our bed was going to be a place for my husband and I to seek refuge against the life shock that is adjusting to parenthood. We set up the bassinet next to our bed, determined to room-in with Baby Bird for the recommended six months, but no way would he sleep in our bed.
Fast forward to Bird being about 6 months old, when he went through a series of nights where he woke up screaming, inconsolable and unable to go back to sleep, wanting only to be near his mama or daddy. I researched co-sleeping and bed-sharing, then practically begged my husband to let us try it. I learned so much about why co-sleeping could be awesome in my research that I really wanted to try it on a part-time basis (as needed).
K. was convinced that it might be a way for us all to sleep a little better, and so we tried.
Once.
It went something like this:
Shuffle shuffle squirm squirm. Awkward positioning of my arm. Nurse nurse nurse. Baby falls asleep; I lay paralyzed for fear of waking him if I shift. Lay awake for a long time. Finally drift off. Minutes later awaken to nurse-nurse-nurse. Repeat process.
And he nursed about a million times. It was unreal. I thought our 3 times a night was inconvenient before this experience. I was wrong.
So, considering I got next to no sleep and had a child attached to my breasts all night, then got up feeling like I was hit by a motor vehicle, I decided co-sleeping is sadly not for us.
I'm very envious that some people make it work and love snuggling with their baby. But I'm also secretly a little glad that our bed is just for the two of us. To each, their own.
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