As I loaded groceries into the trunk, a car slowed behind me. An elderly man rolled down his window and asked, “Do you think he’s going to appreciate what you’re doing now when he’s fifteen years old?”
I assumed this was a reference to Peter’s riding on my back. Not sure whether the man was being facetious, sarcastic, or honestly curious, I just smiled and said, “Who knows? But it makes my life easier.”
Though, even if I could have read his tone of voice, I'd have given the same answer. I wear Peter for my sake more than his.
There, I said it.
When Peter’s on my back in the grocery store, he’s content. He’s not trying to wiggle his way out of the cart. He’s not grabbing apples out of the bins. He’s not reaching behind him for the cereal box. He’s not whining in boredom. He’s just along for the ride, and sometimes I even forget he’s there.
If he happens to benefit from it himself, great. But really, I'm just a lazy mom who wants to shop in peace.
Showing posts with label babywearing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label babywearing. Show all posts
Friday, April 20, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Ferberizing a 4-Week-Old (Wk 4:NEWBORN DAZE)
March 22, 2006
Looking Back at Peter's 3rd Week (Update: If I had known then what I know now about how to wear a baby and how to safely sleep with one, you wouldn't be reading this.)
I talked to several pediatricians about Peter's inability to sleep out of my arms, and they agreed: he'd have to do some crying.
"No!" I thought to myself. I'm of the school that believes going to your baby when he cries builds trust. How could I break that trust with a newborn still learning the way of the world outside the womb? All the sleep books I'd read, even those that accept "crying it out," indicated Peter was too young for this.
Yet I could picture Dr. Phil in my cluttered living room saying to me, "How's this working out for ya?" as I sit emaciated in my bathrobe, bloodshot eyes as I held my baby for the tenth day in a row.
Learning How to Soothe
"Every baby has a way that they soothe themselves when sleeping," one doctor said. "For your baby, it's YOU. When you put him down, and he realizes he's not in your arms anymore, he panics."
I couldn't deny it. I thought back to our time at Children's Hospital when Tom and I held Peter around the clock for two days. When we got home, Peter went from being difficult to put down to impossible.
I knew that he couldn't be in my arms 24 hours a day, and I knew that he needed to sleep. For his sake, we'd have to at least try this.
We did the Ferber method, something I never dreamed I'd do. I could go to Peter every five minutes, pick him up every fifteen minutes, and feed him every hour.
Who Cried More?
It's difficult to write about letting Peter cry. Partly because I want to forget it, partly because my words are inept to describe the pain. To hear your infant sob and know you could comfort him, but not, goes against every maternal instinct.
I wanted earplugs, but the thought of softening his cries to my ears made me feel too guilty. If he were suffering, I must suffer too. Each wail of his brought a new onslaught of tears for me, and I began to feel that I wouldn't have the strength to do it. At the same time, everything else had failed, and I knew that my little boy must sleep. I prayed with new fervency and clung to Tom.
This is what I will say about the crying: it worked, but it will always haunt me.
Now Peter naps in the morning and afternoon, goes back to bed between feedings at night, and gets 12-15 hours of sleep each day. Getting him to take an evening nap on his own still eludes us, and on that I've given up. Between 5:00 and 8:00 p.m. we rock and walk and soothe-- but 3 hours a day beats 24.
Looking Back at Peter's 3rd Week (Update: If I had known then what I know now about how to wear a baby and how to safely sleep with one, you wouldn't be reading this.)
I talked to several pediatricians about Peter's inability to sleep out of my arms, and they agreed: he'd have to do some crying.
"No!" I thought to myself. I'm of the school that believes going to your baby when he cries builds trust. How could I break that trust with a newborn still learning the way of the world outside the womb? All the sleep books I'd read, even those that accept "crying it out," indicated Peter was too young for this.
Yet I could picture Dr. Phil in my cluttered living room saying to me, "How's this working out for ya?" as I sit emaciated in my bathrobe, bloodshot eyes as I held my baby for the tenth day in a row.
Learning How to Soothe
"Every baby has a way that they soothe themselves when sleeping," one doctor said. "For your baby, it's YOU. When you put him down, and he realizes he's not in your arms anymore, he panics."
I couldn't deny it. I thought back to our time at Children's Hospital when Tom and I held Peter around the clock for two days. When we got home, Peter went from being difficult to put down to impossible.
I knew that he couldn't be in my arms 24 hours a day, and I knew that he needed to sleep. For his sake, we'd have to at least try this.
We did the Ferber method, something I never dreamed I'd do. I could go to Peter every five minutes, pick him up every fifteen minutes, and feed him every hour.
Who Cried More?
It's difficult to write about letting Peter cry. Partly because I want to forget it, partly because my words are inept to describe the pain. To hear your infant sob and know you could comfort him, but not, goes against every maternal instinct.
I wanted earplugs, but the thought of softening his cries to my ears made me feel too guilty. If he were suffering, I must suffer too. Each wail of his brought a new onslaught of tears for me, and I began to feel that I wouldn't have the strength to do it. At the same time, everything else had failed, and I knew that my little boy must sleep. I prayed with new fervency and clung to Tom.
This is what I will say about the crying: it worked, but it will always haunt me.
Now Peter naps in the morning and afternoon, goes back to bed between feedings at night, and gets 12-15 hours of sleep each day. Getting him to take an evening nap on his own still eludes us, and on that I've given up. Between 5:00 and 8:00 p.m. we rock and walk and soothe-- but 3 hours a day beats 24.
Mr. Sandman (Wk 3: NEWBORN DAZE)
March 22, 2006
Looking Back at Peter's 3rd Week (Update: If I had known then what I know now about how to wear a baby and safely sleep with one, you wouldn't be reading this.)
Peter bucked the newborn description from the time he was born. In the pediatrician's waiting room and emergency room the week before, people asked me how many months old he was. Some people were startled by his size, but just as many folks remarked on his activity level.
This energy and alertness made putting him down to sleep difficult. He was-- and is-- a baby easily consoled, but he is not a baby who can just "sit there" and be content. He must be rocked. He must suck. He must bounce or eat or be on a walk.
While I enjoyed these soothing techniques, my frustration grew his third week when Peter would awaken as soon as I put him in his cradle to sleep. Aren't newborns supposed to sleep 16 hours a day? We were quickly regressing to as little as 6. That's not a typo. Six hours in a 24-hour period.
Every Trick in the Book
I tried everything. I could list what all I tried, but that would take entirely too long. Sufficed to say, the technique I finally latched onto was a routine of nursing Peter to sleep, then rocking him for a good twenty minutes to get him into a deep sleep, then placing him in his cradle. And he'd sleep!
For five minutes.
We'd rock some more, as I lamented not rocking longer the first time. And I'd put him down, and he'd sleep.
For five minutes.
This is what we'd do all day, with breaks for eating. HIS eating. By this point, I was down to one meal a day, when Tom got home and could do some rocking.
I did manage a daily shower, since the sound of rushing water relaxed Peter in his bouncy seat. Dressing was another matter. My bathrobe and I were one. You could forget doing laundry, unloading the dishwasher, or even sorting through mail.
Each visitor was a source of joy and panic. Joy, because she'd have a meal in hand. Panic, that the knock on the door might stir the baby before I could get him down.
Giving Up
So I decided that my present life had ended, that I was the only person on the planet whose newborn didn't sleep, and that I needed to inform friends that I must retreat from life until Peter sleeps somewhere besides my arms.
I envisioned hiring a maid with money we don't have. I mourned for the life I once had with Tom, convinced no babysitter would ever take on this child.
And I cried. Several times a day. Usually it happened when Tom called from work. I wouldn't even know the tears were there until I'd start to talk, then I'd lose it.
Amazingly, I didn't become depressed. (Okay, maybe there was some depression, but it was situational as opposed to a true postpartum depression. When you are not eating, not sleeping, not dressing, not knowing when you will ever do those things again, it is natural to cry.) It amazed me how a good hot shower could refresh me to start all over again each day. And those times I managed to eat were pretty renewing too.
Peter continued to melt my heart, and my greatest sorrow was that he wasn't getting the sleep he so badly needed. Honestly, his lack of sleep bothered me more than my own. By the end of this week, I knew something had to give.
Looking Back at Peter's 3rd Week (Update: If I had known then what I know now about how to wear a baby and safely sleep with one, you wouldn't be reading this.)
Peter bucked the newborn description from the time he was born. In the pediatrician's waiting room and emergency room the week before, people asked me how many months old he was. Some people were startled by his size, but just as many folks remarked on his activity level.
This energy and alertness made putting him down to sleep difficult. He was-- and is-- a baby easily consoled, but he is not a baby who can just "sit there" and be content. He must be rocked. He must suck. He must bounce or eat or be on a walk.
While I enjoyed these soothing techniques, my frustration grew his third week when Peter would awaken as soon as I put him in his cradle to sleep. Aren't newborns supposed to sleep 16 hours a day? We were quickly regressing to as little as 6. That's not a typo. Six hours in a 24-hour period.
Every Trick in the Book
I tried everything. I could list what all I tried, but that would take entirely too long. Sufficed to say, the technique I finally latched onto was a routine of nursing Peter to sleep, then rocking him for a good twenty minutes to get him into a deep sleep, then placing him in his cradle. And he'd sleep!
For five minutes.
We'd rock some more, as I lamented not rocking longer the first time. And I'd put him down, and he'd sleep.
For five minutes.
This is what we'd do all day, with breaks for eating. HIS eating. By this point, I was down to one meal a day, when Tom got home and could do some rocking.
I did manage a daily shower, since the sound of rushing water relaxed Peter in his bouncy seat. Dressing was another matter. My bathrobe and I were one. You could forget doing laundry, unloading the dishwasher, or even sorting through mail.
Each visitor was a source of joy and panic. Joy, because she'd have a meal in hand. Panic, that the knock on the door might stir the baby before I could get him down.
Giving Up
So I decided that my present life had ended, that I was the only person on the planet whose newborn didn't sleep, and that I needed to inform friends that I must retreat from life until Peter sleeps somewhere besides my arms.
I envisioned hiring a maid with money we don't have. I mourned for the life I once had with Tom, convinced no babysitter would ever take on this child.
And I cried. Several times a day. Usually it happened when Tom called from work. I wouldn't even know the tears were there until I'd start to talk, then I'd lose it.
Amazingly, I didn't become depressed. (Okay, maybe there was some depression, but it was situational as opposed to a true postpartum depression. When you are not eating, not sleeping, not dressing, not knowing when you will ever do those things again, it is natural to cry.) It amazed me how a good hot shower could refresh me to start all over again each day. And those times I managed to eat were pretty renewing too.
Peter continued to melt my heart, and my greatest sorrow was that he wasn't getting the sleep he so badly needed. Honestly, his lack of sleep bothered me more than my own. By the end of this week, I knew something had to give.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
