I have a candid admission to make: more often than not, I have one (or more) of my children curled up in bed with me. With four little ones, all still at an age where nighttime fears or discomfort can lead them to seek solace, it’s not unusual for at least one of them to wander into my room. They often arrive clutching a worn blanket or a beloved stuffed animal, and as I glance at the clock, I feel a familiar twinge of frustration at how little sleep I’ll likely get. Despite this, I always find a way to make room for them.
I understand that co-sleeping is a polarizing topic, and I respect that not every parent feels the same way. Parenting guides might raise their eyebrows at my choice, and I’m acutely aware that the sleepless nights have probably aged me significantly. I’ve read all the sleep-training literature and consulted with professionals, often daydreaming about the bliss of uninterrupted sleep. But I believe there’s a deeper reason behind my decision.
When I was 16, I experienced a profound struggle with eating and anxiety. It wasn’t a straightforward decision; rather, it was a gradual decline into a dark place where I felt overwhelmed by life’s complexities. As my anxiety grew, so did my sleepless nights, filled with tossing and turning, convincing myself that hunger and sickness were mere figments of my imagination.
During that tumultuous time, my relationship with my mother was strained. Yet, one desperate night, I crept into her room and curled up beside her, seeking comfort from the storms within me. I remember how, after what felt like an eternity of restless nights, I fell asleep almost instantly. In that moment, I felt her hand resting gently on my back, a physical connection that reminded me I wasn’t alone. It was a small but significant routine that created a bridge to recovery.
Today, I realize that while I may not be the perfect mother—often losing my patience, relying too much on convenience meals, and struggling with daily tasks—I can still provide comfort to my children at night. I can create a sense of security for them, just as my mother did for me. I can help them drift off to sleep, knowing they don’t have to face their fears alone.
Their nighttime needs—whether dealing with nightmares or fears of the dark—will evolve as they grow older, and while that thought brings both relief and anxiety, I know that for now, I want to be there for them, even if it means sacrificing my own rest.
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In summary, while I may not always be the ideal parent, I find purpose in these nightly moments of closeness. They remind me of my own childhood and the importance of connection, even amidst the chaos of motherhood.