How I Got My Son to Sleep Through the Night

I am a baby class teacher - positive touch and fourth trimester education. I regularly encounter mothers who are desperate for their little ones to 'sleep through', whatever that means. It can be hard sometimes adjusting expectations to newborn behaviour but I try.

When my son was born I quickly realised that sleeping apart was not going to work. Breastfeeding a newborn on demand would have turned me into a zombie very quickly had I not been able to just latch him on and drift back off into that intense, high quality sleep breastfeeding mothers manage to accumulate in between night feeds. 

I loved having him in bed with me. The way he would seek me out during the night and contentedly drift off in my arms. The way we would both accidentally sleep in on occasion and wake up dozy yet refreshed. The more research I did into sleeping the more it seemed to make sense. We as adults do not sleep through the night, we wake up, turn over, sip water, cuddle into each other. Babies are no different and when they are born have a stomach the size of a marble that needs to be filled little and often. In evolutionary terms, a baby who slept apart from a caregiver was in big trouble.

For little babies, sleeping next to a caregiver is essential to survival. Our breathing triggers their breathing, our heart rate stabilises theirs, we provide warmth and comfort. One of the risk factors for SIDs is putting a baby to sleep in a separate room for these reasons.

The advantage I had with having Judah in bed with me is that I was synchronised to his sleep cycles. I would be awake before he had a chance to stir and cry and soothe him before he completely awoke. There were nights that were hard - teething, growth spurts. There were nights I wanted to pack it in and had to conceal from health professionals we were bedsharing. Some nights I just wanted my boob back, wanted my space back, wanted my life back.

One of the hardest lessons to learn as a mother is that the life you had before is never coming back. The hard days and nights when you're touched out and you've had enough. It wasn't actually about the sleeping. It was the constant accommodation and sacrifice. Then remembering, I wanted and loved this child and what is best for him is not always what is most convenient for me.

I have long been an advocate of gentle parenting, particularly when it comes to sleep. New parents swiftly realise that parenting is a twenty four hour job which can be a bit of a shock. They're tired, they need a break, they want the night to escape from their baby and rest, they want to know how they can get these little ones to stop seeking comfort and food in the night.

There is a lot of research done as to what happens to the brain when a baby is left to cry. Although I would not categorically say that sleep training will affect that particular baby's brain, what it teaches babies is that nobody comes when they cry. Little babies that have not even learned object permanence think that when they cannot see you then you are gone forever. They think they have been abandoned. That legendary "self-soothing" is actually a baby passing out from being tired and internalising its own needs. This can have consequences for their relationships with others as adults and can even affect their digestion. Hearing your baby's cry and not responding trains the parent to become colder and less responsive to their child and has implications for their relationship.

We as a culture are becoming less touchy-feely, less empathetic, seeking comfort from things rather than people. Internalising our problems, leading to mental health issues. I have long suspected these things are linked to how we respond to our children during the night time.

Interestingly, the nights I was most frustrated with my son were the times I would find out that he was actually ill, or growing fast, growing teeth or learning a new skill. Babies who are sleep trained often need to be "re-trained" at many different stages in their development.

Being the teacher, I am often looked to for 'methods'. If you're reading this to try and get some magic tip or trick that will make your baby sleep then that's not what I'm going to give you.

I did get him to sleep through. Judah has been sleeping through the night (8pm-6am) for the last few weeks. He is 2 1/2 years old. I truly believe that developmentally he was not ready to sleep through until very recently. It really hit home to me how unreasonable we are to expect this kind of development from newborn babies. The advantage I have is that Judah now understands what he is told and I explained to him that when he woke up the milk would be sleeping but he could have water if he wanted to. On the first two nights he had a little protest and then cuddled back to sleep. Now he does not even care to wake.

I want to be able to say that I feel different, amazing from more sleep. I actually don't feel much different. I feel happy and relieved that I was able to wait and let him grow and develop on his own while responding to his needs. Every decision we make as mothers is fraught with doubt and it can be hard to see the future when the present is so demanding and difficult.

It may take children even longer than this to develop the true ability to soothe themselves back to sleep. The most important thing to remember is that they don't learn it from being left to cry, they learn it from a loving caregiver showing them how until they are ready to do it themselves, just like any other skill.

So how did I get him to sleep through?

I was always present, always caring, always responsive. A child that is secure that their needs are going to be met is less anxious and is able to develop the confidence and ability in their own time.

Never Again - To My Daughter

When you have a daughter, your perspective changes.

Just eight weeks old with her in tow.

Half her life already without a home. Except that which she found within me. She's sitting up now, gurgling and blowing raspberries, my parma violet, my delicious baby and I want to say -

You are so sacred to me.

How little love I showed for this precious body of mine. The one that birthed yours, that provided sacred passage. I felt your head move down in my centre and you told me you were coming. The first true knowing I felt there. The power of it.

In my life, hands have pawed at me, and I in my hunger for love often mistook it for reverence. I learned early to dissociate at the first sign of revulsion or rage. Staring blankly radio static hovering above myself. Dancing pictures in my head of past tenderness to override... Rebrainwashed. Instrumental in my own downfall. Pouring my love into empty caverns where monsters lurked in the darkness.

Photographs from your cherished growing time, like a woman in a glass cage, begging to be seen. The anger, the invasion, the womb-deep ache and the betrayal of my inner self, that essence of me. That precious spark they could not find nor capture. Without my bonds I breathe in, send my roots down.

There will be those in your life who will want you, want you like a butterfly to pin to a board. Those hands that gently lure and entice you to follow. You cannot be blamed for dancing along with your open, loving heart. But I promise to you, never again will that be me. I want to radiate to you wholeness. A woman I hope you come to know once told me, what was promised to her by others she found within... You want to be rescued, yet how swiftly that rescue became ransom.

I cannot tell you what to look for, but I can show you how it looks to be alone. To stand in your power and feel within your belly all that you are. Only yourself to validate your worthiness, your beauty and your strength. Every touch on your skin that which is honest and true and welcome.

And when you are older, you may gently tease; mama sees wolves where there are only sheep. I wish I could gift you my knowing, because only now do I truly see. And it's too much to hope that hurt won't shape you, like it has shaped me. And really would I wish for life to touch you only lightly? For that is where the learning takes place.

Just please know that this woman has been brought so low she couldn't breathe. If I had a wish for you it would be - to realise you are complete with all that you are.

And I will show you, starting today.

My Naked Face

I thought I'd write a bit about my thoughts as it came up in class last night. This is my reasoning for no longer choosing to wear makeup. The transition was slow and quite unlike me - these thoughts triggered by the day I gave birth. I remember refusing to take my eyeliner and mascara off when I was in labour and as I submerged myself lower and lower into the birth pool, it ran in streaks around my face. Such a strange concern for somebody as they're expecting their first baby. But a common one.

Contrary to what people might assume, I don't go without makeup because I don't have time. Each morning I linger over my cup of tea and toast while Judah watches cartoons. I am a busy mother, but I work part time and can grab these snatches of time to do what makes me happy. It's just that cosmetics are no longer part of what makes me happy.

Growing up I genuinely believed wearing makeup was something that women just did. It was a mark of respect to yourself, taking pride in your appearance before all else. I remember painstakingly applying eyeliner and not achieving the affect I thought it would create (Avril Lavigne). Truthfully at age 13 my face looked even younger and it looked incongruous on my youthful face. Really I find it quite worrying that I felt the need to adopt this adult women's rite of passage at only 13. The sexualisation of young girls is something that is unmissable in our culture, you can even buy cosmetics for children. Just a bit of fun, is it? Actually if we look at the functions of make up, it isn't. We use blusher and lipstick to imitate the redness of sexual arousal in a woman's face. We use mascara to make eyes appear wide, youthful and appealing. The juxtaposition of youth and sex. These are the products we are giving to young girls.

When I worked in Starbucks, I used make up to create a mask. This job involved giving so much of myself physically and emotionally to strangers for long hours every day. Make up was a front between me and the customers, an impenetrable layer. It was my way of saying I took my job seriously and that I was a professional. Although physically I can work very hard, my mind was bored and I enjoyed this play acting in lieu of any mental stimulation. I enjoyed the admiration I would get. 

When I stayed over boyfriends' house I would always be scared of the moment I had to remove my make up or they would see me without it in the morning. I felt that maybe I had presented myself differently, that they would feel cheated. They'd bought a vision that was not based in reality and they would despise me for it. They would love me less. The compliments were never for me, but for the cosmetics. That was how poor my self esteem was.
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Women who didn't follow suit were the object of scorn. How can somebody let themselves go like that? In a world of made up faces she who does not follow suit is a stark contrast. When I would wear perhaps less of it, the questions such as 'are you ill?' 'are you tired?' would reinforce my idea that this was essential. By foregoing it I was penalising myself merely by the comparison with other women. It was completely integral to my self image and I spent so much money on different products trying to achieve a better, more perfect me. Never mind that in the summer it would sweat off my face, when my pores were clogged it would bobble around my nose, when I kissed my boyfriend he would get mascara smears on his eyes. When I blew my nose the tissue was orange. I was unable to even rub my eyes. This was choice.

When my son was born I will always remember the moment I decided my postpartum rest was over. I was mortified that my visitors had seen me with my naked face, and on day 3 as my husband and baby slept in bed I reapplied my make up, reassured to see that familiar self looking back at me in the mirror. I now felt confident to face the world. I refused to be a plain mother. I wanted to show the world I still valued myself as an attractive woman. I would not give up.

I slowly did. Not for any one reason. It began with my distaste at kissing my newborn son and leaving traces of lipstick. Wanting to nuzzle his face but not wanting to leave foundation smears on his perfect head. As I got more acquainted with my inner self, my intuitive mothering, I found that cosmetics obscured the face underneath. That was slowly maturing and now bore up quite well under decoration but was strong enough to stand on its own. 

Then came the long, wonderful summer where I couldn't bear the stickiness on my face. The longing to just splash my face with water or get caught in the warm rain without needing to do a complete rehaul of my appearance. I got so tanned that summer that I began to fall in love with the earthy bareness that was my skin. Gradually the made-up me began to look like the stranger and I would regard my reflection with discomfort when I wore it. It wasn't even something fun and creative to indulge in, it felt necessary.

Then finally the discovery of radical feminism and the concept of choice. I am hesitant to say I am a radical feminist, because I do not align with some of the teachings. Also I am a heterosexual woman which complicates the ideology somewhat! However, the concept of free choice really intrigued me. Liberal feminism is all about a woman's right to choose how she dresses, what make up she wears, who she sleeps with. And rightly so. The concept of true choice is an interesting one - for a woman who lives her life in a patriarchal society with certain expectations, is any choice truly free? For me the overt discomfort I felt at going without make up came from somewhere. I had internalised it. I've been trying to identify the 'choices' in my life that feel compulsory and make me uncomfortable and challenging them, one by one.

So I no longer wear make up. Partly to see if I could go without it, but also because I've realised I really like my bare face. The longer I have done this the more I begin to appreciate the raw beauty of women. The thought of anything heavy sitting on my face now seems completely unappealing. The beauty of my son's bare face is the same that is reflected in me. I thought make up was something I wore to make myself feel good but as time went on it made me like myself a lot less. 

Then there's the cost, and impact on the environment. My husband and I are currently trying to run three businesses and work two jobs between us. Any spare cash I have is more likely to go on things like food, clothes or enjoyable activities. Not pots of goo that get washed down the drain or expire before I've had a chance to use them. All those little pots fuelling our consumer culture and then going to landfill. Every new product a 'miracle' product. Same formulation, different label and advertising campaign.

That said, I do appreciate the impact of a red lipstick. It just wouldn't bother me if I never got to use one again. The futility of reapplying something and washing it off is partly what has driven me to tattoos and piercings. I want to get enjoyment from something permanent. I sometimes regard a heavily made up face with disconcertment now, but that's probably how some people regard me too.

It is a choice, but it's worth being aware that our choices are made within a structure and framework for how we believe we are supposed to be. I enjoy dissecting these choices and finding a position I am comfortable with. I truly don't care how any other woman chooses to present herself. Whether make up is fun for you, a chore or integral to your self esteem. The marketing and pervasiveness of the beauty industry makes things difficult. Especially for career women who are considered 'unprofessional' if they don't present this flawless appearance. I just hope I never feel the need for it again.