Toddler Sleep Problems and Other Tales of Woe

One of my biggest regrets as a parent thus far is not having been an uncaring asshole, spitting in the face of attachment disorder, and saying, "Okay, it is no longer acceptable to wake up hourly. Sorry, kid, but you're going to have to cry it out. How do you like them apples?"

Three years in to nighttime parenting, and I still don't know what I'm doing. Good news: we've moved on from baby sleep problems. Bad news: We now have toddler sleep problems.

In the early days of parenthood I was so confidently sure of my approach to parenting (in the way that only a novice and / or idiot can be). With granola running through my veins, I would parent intentionally and with love. I would attend to my child's every need, teach her that the world is a safe place and her needs would be met. Above all, thought I, she'd never be left to cry.

Well, it turns out that this nonsense parenting is exceedingly difficult to sustain when your child wakes twelve times per night. And requires 1 hour and fifteen minutes of bouncing and pacing and rocking to achieve 20 minutes of sleep. Four times per day. 

(And, guys, I know that I lean hyperbolic, but this right here, this is FACT).

As I was scrolling through my Facebook timeline on the weekend, I saw that Aisha had posted an article about baby sleep. So of course I clicked through it, because duh. Then, as is kind of the way of the Internet, I read through the comments and found myself wanting to poke everyone in the eyeballs.

Sleep is a rage-button issue for me. I bristle when people try to tell me how to make it happen (guess what! tired it! it didn't work!!!) and I snarl when others complain about the slog of nighttime parenting a three-month-old who has the insolence to wake up for two mid-slumber feedings, because OMG YOU DO NOT KNOW EXHAUSTION UNTIL YOU'VE PARENTED MY BABY and btw, do we need to talk about the time she stayed awake for 36 hours??? That one still stings.

Anyway, here were are, so many years later with a nice hearty dose of toddler sleep problems: (nap resistance, bedtime refusal {extreme overtiredness be damned! This kid still won't sleep!!!} nightmare, and a total inability to fall asleep or stay asleep alone.)

(I keep writing about the trails of sleep deprivation. Do you think I have post traumatic stress disorder? Hmmm, what do you think, Dr. internet??)

Anyway, I kind of want to write a coherent post about the ways and means of infant sleep, the guilt and stress, and anti-feminist currents that run through parenting literature and the douche captain doctor who's name rhymes with Mears whom I hold accountable for the massive (and I fear permanent) bags under my eyes. (Thanks kid doctor, for equating crying it out with abandoning my child in a Russian orphanage. I really needed that extra guilt because motherhood doesn't come with enough as is.)

But still, even three years out, coherent thoughts about infant sleep is not something of which I'm capable.

All I can tell you, is that we've trying out my newest scheme in my grand project to secure seven hours of uninterrupted sleep and put an end to our ongoing toddler sleep problems. As such, Stella has a new bed.

She's pretty stoked on the idea, and does not fail to mention to everyone that she has a NEW! BIG! BED! My friend at the cafe? "Stel-wa have new bed! I getting big because!" The waiter at dinner? "Stel-wa have new bed!" Teachers at school? "I have big bed now!" I mean, this is maj! They need to know!

I can also tell you that only yesterday I overheard her screaming at the top of her lungs, "ROCKSTAR! ROCKSTAR ROCKSTAR!" while nestled in the glorious and totally ridiculous luxury that is a full-sized bed for a two-year-old.

 

Looks comfy, no? (And I can tell you from experience that it is! Because guess who's sleeping in it??!! Me!!!! Every night! Except for last night when Mr. Chef was in charge of toddler sleep problems and I slept solidly for eight hours. I don't even think I moved.) 

(Now that I think about it, maybe delegation of nighttime parenting is the answer??)

Project Life ::: Week Thirteen

This week was a quiet one. Stella was out of school (unbeknownst to me it was spring break, so I showed up at drop-off Tuesday morning wondering why there were no cars lined up or gleeful shrieks filling the air) so, duh. The quiet of this week has allowed me a little space for stillness, which is so badly needed. I'm trying to gather up all my resources, temporal and mental, and make a push for something great.  

//I've banished Facebook and Instagram first thing in the morning, opting instead for tea, planning, and a corner of stillness // a porcelain xiao long bao, a treasure from China // brewing kefier // Stella and I have been having dinner dates, complete with music and "candies" // she wasn't supposed to swim, nor was her best friend, but, well, oops. // lunch in a garden restaurant with her favourite baby // ordering pizza, because, uh, duh? // crepe for mama // playing in the window.//

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Some Days Are Sub-Optimal

Some days your kid acts like a total vom sausage from morning till late afternoon. Some days the eternal struggle to determine the least objectionable type of breakfast food is, frankly, more than your feble mind can manage at 6 am. Some days it takes 47 minutes to get your kid's teeth brushed. Some days naps are preceded by an un-ending snotty screaming fit. Some days your child sit on your lap, twirling her hair, and spontaneously apologize. Some days she'll turn a corner at 4 PM and start using her kind voice and find her patience, so you'll capitalize on that good will and buy her a burger and milkshake for dinner, and a kind stranger will stop to admire your sweet wee one. And then you'll say good bye, round a corner, and then your kid will barf all over the floor. Twice. So. Hi. 

Some days, though, your kid says "ca-dow me". And so you do. 

Linking up with Mel. She's telling stories about Motherhood on Mondays. The truth. 

6/52

"a portrait of my child once a week, every week in 2013"

Stella: mourning the injustice of pants in the morning. 

Ouch. My feelings.

We kicked off Monday with two hours of whining, screaming, crying and other associated displays of general discontent. Major complaints included: pants are assholes; so are toothbrushes; the general bullshittery of toast; the absolute necessity of cereal and then subsequent discovery that cereal is, in fact, total and utter bullshit.

Because I am the kind of person who lives for imaginary high-fives from parenting experts, I try to keep my cool and act like a gold-star A+ hippie-type child-haver. I validate feelings (I can see you're very angry about the cereal). I suggest appropriate behaviours (if you want to use your angry voice, please go into your room). I remain firm in my expectations. (I love you, and you need to put on pants).

Until I am repeatedly barraged with the following phrase: I NO WANNA LUB YOU! I NO WANNA LUB YOU SO MUCH!!!

After two hours of tantruming, I came very close to throwing my hands up in the air and heading straight for the jungle where I was quite sure I would discover that malarial mosquitos and komodo dragons would make more pleasant companions than a certain tiny human I know. 

I have a lot of things to say about this: cross-cultural analyses of normative toddler behaviour; techniques that I've learned from our Indonesian nanny that actually work; thoughts on the simultaneous enormity and insignificance of these issues; societal expectations of behaviour and how they shape our responses to shrieking children; explorations of parenting hot buttons, and the reasons we may allow ourselves to be triggered by our kids. But I don't want to write about these things right now. 

Yes, true, the above mentioned carry much more merit and interest than what I really want to talk about. But the thing is, ummm, my kid hurts my feelings.

Back to Monday morning. Remember we were mid-two-hour tantrum? Finally the source of my child's misery became plain: she was pissed not about yoghurt or pants, but because her Papi had to go to work. Because Papi currently holds the position as Number One Parent.  And ouch, there goes my feelings again.

I spent the first 12 or 18 months of my child's life being Number One Human. I gave this kid sustenance, comfort, entertainment, engagement, and lots and lots of love. I soothed her in the middle of the night through a year of hourly wake-ups. I sat with her through the colic months. I carried her on my back because she would accept neither blanket nor bouncy chair. I did every bedtime, gave each bath, changed nearly every diaper, certainly washed each one. In short, I did all the shit work. 

But, and this is a big but, I was her everything and she was mine. I was the one to whom she turned if a strange face or a loud noise upset her equilibrium. I slept next to her, face pressed to face, all night. Every night. She wanted me. I was unequivocally Human Number One. Validation. Reward. Positive feedback for my martyrdom. 

Now when Stella cries at the injustice of being forced to wear pants, or being denied the privilege of pouring milk on the carpet, she cries hard. And long. (Did I mention two hours?? Because. Yeah.) And she cries for Papi.

She screams with delight when she catches a glimpse of him as we pass through the lobby of the hotel. Papi can brush her teeth, successfully put clothes on her body, and get her to use the toilet. Under Papi's care, she'll co-operate in the grocery store, go to sleep without drama, and remain on an even keel.

These days Mr. Chef is able to come up and help with bedtime before returning back to work. I can escape the hazards of teeth-brushing and toddler-dressing while tidying away the dinner dishes. I happily scroll through Facebook while my kid elects her father as bath time companion, bed-time-story reader, song-singer etc., etc., etc.

But it also kind of stings. Okay, mostly when she's angrily shouting I NO WANNA LUB YOU! PAAAAAAAPPPPIIIIII STELLA MISSS PAPI! But also when she tells me, No! Papi do it! 

Sure escaping one more bathroom trip is rad, but I miss the closeness we once had. I miss being her everything. 

I also miss being able to put pants on her without major drama.

I don't know how to conclude this post, really, because it's kind of a mess. But I guess I'm just asking for tales of parental favouritism,  tips, tricks, and strategies, and maybe some gentle back-patting and there-thereing. Or, perhaps if you have any secrets on how to get past that feeling of wanting to punch all of the things when you're on tantrum hour two and nothing makes sense any more (It's time to go now. I NO WANNA GO!!!! Alright we can stay home. MAMA WETS GOOOOOO! Okay, let's put on shoes! I NO WANNA SHOES!!!! Alright, I'll carry you then. I WANT SHOES!!! etc. to infinity.)

Um. Yeah. So. You know. My feelings.

(Although my feelings would be much improved if you gave us a vote. {How's that for manipulative mommy-blogging shenanigans?})

Man Down

 Let's begin with some parenthesis, shall we? (The title of this post also happens to be the title of my child's third favourite song {which, of course, is is not allowed to watch on youtube, because I have to draw the line somewhere, right} [number one and number two are Gangnam Style and Twinkle, Twinkle, respectively] and I totally think that it's appropriate for a two-and-a-half-year-old to dig a track about second degree murder and the resultant desire to flee).

 With that out of the way, MAN DOWN! Some sort of flu-like virus has stuck us down one by one. So it's been a week of sickies, which cabin fever aside, has been NBD. I don't mind watching Mary Poppins on loop, taking naps with a baby on my chest, or finding an excuse to drink a hot toddy.

 In the interest of full disclosure and my commitment to not perpetuate the bloggy convention of glossing over the un-pretty things in life, it should be noted that I had to literally wrestle my sick, feverish, and over-tired baby to sleep on this day. After 45 minutes of  a tiny screaming, crying, hitting person wiping snot all over my sweater, I finally managed a little dozing too.

What I'm super not into, however, is laryngitis. Which I have. Right now. 

It's one thing to not be able to effectively communicate with adults, I mean I can text my husband from across the table. No bigs.

But when you are dealing with small humans and need to shout DO NOT POUR THAT SOUP ON THE TABLE when you're in the middle of dinner at a restaurant  in a five-star hotel and you're child is obviously going through the motions to make that spectacle happen, well, let's just say a stern yet barely audible whisper is really quite ineffective in conveying parental authority. 

So, I guess what I'm saying is man down. It's a free-for-all over here. Send help. And honey. Also lemons. (PS, did you know that three lemons will set you back 10 bucks in Indonesia?? Ouch.)

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Okay, I know this is kind of cheating, but I don't have time to write something new, and I still want to play along, so linking with Mel for her Motherhood Mondays series. And you should too.  

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