My journey into the enigmatic relationship between infants and sleep began with my lively 3-year-old stepson, who would squawk like a rooster at dawn. I was certain my own children would be different—more disciplined.
A year later, my first daughter arrived, her tiny body nestled against her father’s skin while I was whisked away for stitches. That evening, armed with the knowledge I had gathered, I attempted to feed her, change her, and swaddle her before placing her in the clear plastic crib beside my hospital bed—a distance deemed safe for sleep. Yet, my daughter cried. Determined to get it right, I repeated the process, but she continued to wail.
A midwife entered, gently placed my daughter into my arms, and to my surprise, she settled peacefully. My heart raced. I thought, “This isn’t how I envisioned it.” I was apprehensive about co-sleeping. We swaddled her, introduced a pacifier, and I gradually removed it at the appropriate age. However, at 5 months, she decided to boycott naps. As she grew, I allowed her to cry, convinced I could mold her into a sound sleeper. I was too focused on the results to appreciate my own experience as a mother in those moments. My early mornings, punctuated by her cries at 5:45 a.m., saved me a fortune on alarm clocks.
What I’ve learned is that sometimes, babies just fuss because they need the comfort of their mother nearby.
My second daughter made her entrance quietly, aided by an epidural and laughing gas. This calm, red-haired child was surprisingly serene. During our skin-to-skin time, I welcomed her to the world and expressed my hopes for her future, assuring her she was safe.
Just two hours post-birth, she was a cozy bundle in the crib next to me. By 3 months old, she slept soundly from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m., and even at 20 months, she still enjoys her two-hour afternoon nap, burying herself under the covers with her thumb in her mouth. Had I finally figured out the sleep puzzle of motherhood?
What I’ve learned is that some babies are just naturally sleepy, while others are not.
Then came my third daughter, who arrived with her fist raised high, like a little warrior. As she latched onto me, I quickly realized we were dealing with another tongue-tied baby. This spirited child tended to gulp air while feeding, leading to random outbursts during her sleep.
I’ve discovered that some babies have a strong need to suck; it’s simply part of who they are.
The stargazer. The pacifist. The little warrior. My three daughters have taught me that babies are individuals, each with their unique preferences and quirks. We have no control over their hair color, eye color, or even their sleep patterns.
I’ve learned that sleep is much like water. It can be gently guided, but never truly controlled. I regret how I parented before grasping this concept, especially regarding my harsh self-criticism for not trusting my instincts about what kind of parent felt right. Ultimately, we don’t dictate their outcomes; we merely choose the type of parent we wish to be in each moment, not the final result.
I’ve come to understand that parenting is not about control or creation; it’s about response. While we may rely on science to inform our choices, parenting itself is more of an art form—when done authentically. Yet, I still find myself learning as I go. Sleep will come later.
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In summary, my experiences with my three daughters have illuminated the complexities of sleep in infancy. Each child is unique, and as parents, we must learn to adapt and respond, rather than trying to control outcomes.