I write this sitting at the kitchen table in the dead of night, the Boy Child asleep upstairs. I am wearing - for the first time in a year and a half - an underwired bra.
I am not telling you this for salacious reasons, like one of those bored housewives who tells eager callers about her lingerie for cash as she does the ironing. There is, in fact, a link.
The major design flaw in our adorable Boy Child is that he isn’t a fan of going to sleep. Granted, when he was tiny, he would snooze in the corner of the kitchen in his pram.
‘If he carries on like this,’ I told Papà A fondly, ‘I’ll be able to get loads of writing done. You hardly notice he’s there.’
How wrong I was. As he grew bigger, the Boy Child’s naps grew shorter – both during the day and at night. When he was born he’d happily sleep for five hours at a stretch, but by the time he was three months he was waking every two, demanding succour from the Lady V bosom and not giving up until he got it. Bleary-eyed, I would stagger from my bed, pick up the writhing little scrap, get back into bed, lean back and doze off while he slurped and snuffled at my nipple, until, satiated, he would give a sharp flick of his head (gums still attached to tender flesh) to let me know he was finished. I’d put him back in his cot hoping for the best but knowing that in a couple of hours he’d be back for more.
My days were spent on auto-pilot, waiting for when it was time to go back to bed. I pushed his pram around the streets feeling I was wading through mud. My front door keys were left in the lock for passers-by to break in. I filed yoghurt away in the cutlery drawer. I had conversations that I couldn’t remember 5 minutes later. It was like being very drunk but without the fun.
Try as I might, I couldn’t work out what was wrong. At two months we began a bedtime routine, as suggested by all the books and about the only thing they all agree is absolutely vital for a good night’s sleep. Wind-down, story, bath and bed in his own cot away from everyone else. The Boy Child resisted, screaming that he wanted to rejoin the party.
I talked to other mothers, who smilingly told me about their babies sleeping through the night. The Boy Child’s lack of sleep became a topic of discussion all over Islington, in playgroups, Pilates classes and prams in the park.
Over the summer, in Italy, things got worse. Whipped into a frenzy of excitement by the various goings-on described in my previous post, the Boy Child decided that he didn’t want to miss any of it, and began to wake every hour. One night we even drugged him with Calpol. Instead of dropping off into sweet slumber like all the other babies I know of, he went into a strange, giggly state, stoned, yet alert, and still he did not sleep.
By the time we returned to London I was on my knees. After a particularly embarrassing breakdown at a house party in Somerset, by which time I had begun to hear noises instead of conversation and see dizzying, hallucinatory flashes of colour instead of people, we made the decision: to try controlled crying.
Now, people say all kinds of things about controlled crying. For some, it’s akin to child abuse. For others, it’s the first step on the road to showing your child who’s boss. I didn’t have a position on it. I just knew that I needed to sleep, and that if the Boy Child slept then so would I. It would also – and here’s the link to the bra – mean that I’d be able to stop breastfeeding, which was vital for me being able to get back to the library and write the masterpiece that would keep us all in Chianti for years to come. As long as the Boy Child kept waking through the night, I would have to keep feeding him, because the thought of going downstairs to warm up bottles was even worse. So the two would happen together. We had just a week to get it right before Papà A went off to Southern Europe in his own frenzy of consultancy hunter-gathering to keep the family fed and watered.
The technique is thus: when the baby cries, you go to it and settle it but don’t pick it up. After a minute in the room you leave, and wait for five more minutes before going in, then a minute inside, then wait for ten. Repeat until the baby has sobbed itself to sleep.
The only strategy, it seemed, was to divide and rule. Everyone I spoke to told me that controlled crying is horrible for the mother, who has to be prevented by the father from going to the child. We decided to swap rooms for the duration - Papà A and Shu Shu T sleeping in my room next to the Boy Child; me and DJ S (delighted at the thought of a week’s proper sleep) scuttling downstairs to the basement out of earshot.
The first evening Papà A and I settled down in front of a movie and waited. When the first small whimpers came, I felt a chill run through my body.
‘This WILL work. I’m going to break him,’ said Papà A, with a certain amount of satisfaction.
I gave a small whimper of my own and tried to turn my attention to the screen. As the screams grew louder, Papà A took the baby monitor and turned off the sound, so all I could see was the red flash of the light, which means full on screams. A flood of maternal instinct began to wash over me.
‘I’ll go.’
‘No, I’ll go.’
‘No, really.’ I set off up the stairs before he could stop me.
I opened the nursery door to see a small, frenzied child beating his head against the bars of his cot, screaming loud enough to break the sound barrier. As I walked towards him he raised his arms towards me to be lifted up. ‘Shh,’ I said, ineffectually, and stroked his forehead. There was a moment of silence, probably from shock, then he started again, louder than before. It’s hard to count to a minute when a baby’s screaming like that, but those are the rules. As I stood up and walked out of the door, my breasts began to leak as if they were crying in sympathy.
I came downstairs shaking.
‘Do you think, maybe, we could…?’
‘No! I knew you would crack if you went up there.’
Papà A and I have never had a row before, however there followed a few minutes that I shall not describe, since I suspect they would make neither of us look very good. Suffice to say that words were spoken through gritted teeth and I soon made my excuses and retired to bed.
The next morning when I went into the Boy Child’s room to start the day there were none of his usual smiles: he turned his head away. As the day went on, and he continued to ignore me, I began to panic. I started to imagine the therapist’s couch in years to come, the Boy Child now a suicidal adult, muttering that ‘of course, my mother never really loved me, she used to leave me to cry myself to sleep EVERY NIGHT.’
There were tears before bedtime that day, and not just from the Boy Child.
Most babies are, to use Papà A’s phrase, ‘broken’ after a couple of nights of this. Perhaps it is a tribute to the Boy Child’s staying power that it took him a week. Slowly, but surely, he began to get the message, and Papà A would come downstairs looking marginally better rested, and utter the longed-for words ‘he only woke up once.’
And finally, joyfully, the Boy Child started sleeping through the night. I have stopped dreading going to bed. I can walk up the stairs without feeling like I’m going to pass out. I have participated in a conversation where someone used the term ‘ideology’ more than once and I understood what was going on. In short, I am a new woman.
Even better, from DJ S’s point of view, is the change in underwear. One of the worst parts of pregnancy and childbirth, according to her, was the vile and enormous lingerie that it required. Underwires not being recommended as they can damage milk ducts, and flip down cups necessary for feeding, I have been forced to contain the Lady V bosom in bras that can only be described as serviceable. Still, installed in the front window of our kitchen, I would unhook said serviceable items and expose myself to passers by like a whore in Amsterdam’s red light district. I found breastfeeding an odd experience, involving bodily exposure in the most unlikely of places, from the middle of an Ikea showroom to an audience of giggling schoolchildren at a literary festival in the French Alps. Some women find it the zenith of feminine nurture. For me it was a bit uncomfortable, slightly embarrassing and somewhat damp.
The major design flaw in our adorable Boy Child is that he isn’t a fan of going to sleep. Granted, when he was tiny, he would snooze in the corner of the kitchen in his pram.
‘If he carries on like this,’ I told Papà A fondly, ‘I’ll be able to get loads of writing done. You hardly notice he’s there.’
How wrong I was. As he grew bigger, the Boy Child’s naps grew shorter – both during the day and at night. When he was born he’d happily sleep for five hours at a stretch, but by the time he was three months he was waking every two, demanding succour from the Lady V bosom and not giving up until he got it. Bleary-eyed, I would stagger from my bed, pick up the writhing little scrap, get back into bed, lean back and doze off while he slurped and snuffled at my nipple, until, satiated, he would give a sharp flick of his head (gums still attached to tender flesh) to let me know he was finished. I’d put him back in his cot hoping for the best but knowing that in a couple of hours he’d be back for more.
My days were spent on auto-pilot, waiting for when it was time to go back to bed. I pushed his pram around the streets feeling I was wading through mud. My front door keys were left in the lock for passers-by to break in. I filed yoghurt away in the cutlery drawer. I had conversations that I couldn’t remember 5 minutes later. It was like being very drunk but without the fun.
Try as I might, I couldn’t work out what was wrong. At two months we began a bedtime routine, as suggested by all the books and about the only thing they all agree is absolutely vital for a good night’s sleep. Wind-down, story, bath and bed in his own cot away from everyone else. The Boy Child resisted, screaming that he wanted to rejoin the party.
I talked to other mothers, who smilingly told me about their babies sleeping through the night. The Boy Child’s lack of sleep became a topic of discussion all over Islington, in playgroups, Pilates classes and prams in the park.
Over the summer, in Italy, things got worse. Whipped into a frenzy of excitement by the various goings-on described in my previous post, the Boy Child decided that he didn’t want to miss any of it, and began to wake every hour. One night we even drugged him with Calpol. Instead of dropping off into sweet slumber like all the other babies I know of, he went into a strange, giggly state, stoned, yet alert, and still he did not sleep.
By the time we returned to London I was on my knees. After a particularly embarrassing breakdown at a house party in Somerset, by which time I had begun to hear noises instead of conversation and see dizzying, hallucinatory flashes of colour instead of people, we made the decision: to try controlled crying.
Now, people say all kinds of things about controlled crying. For some, it’s akin to child abuse. For others, it’s the first step on the road to showing your child who’s boss. I didn’t have a position on it. I just knew that I needed to sleep, and that if the Boy Child slept then so would I. It would also – and here’s the link to the bra – mean that I’d be able to stop breastfeeding, which was vital for me being able to get back to the library and write the masterpiece that would keep us all in Chianti for years to come. As long as the Boy Child kept waking through the night, I would have to keep feeding him, because the thought of going downstairs to warm up bottles was even worse. So the two would happen together. We had just a week to get it right before Papà A went off to Southern Europe in his own frenzy of consultancy hunter-gathering to keep the family fed and watered.
The technique is thus: when the baby cries, you go to it and settle it but don’t pick it up. After a minute in the room you leave, and wait for five more minutes before going in, then a minute inside, then wait for ten. Repeat until the baby has sobbed itself to sleep.
The only strategy, it seemed, was to divide and rule. Everyone I spoke to told me that controlled crying is horrible for the mother, who has to be prevented by the father from going to the child. We decided to swap rooms for the duration - Papà A and Shu Shu T sleeping in my room next to the Boy Child; me and DJ S (delighted at the thought of a week’s proper sleep) scuttling downstairs to the basement out of earshot.
The first evening Papà A and I settled down in front of a movie and waited. When the first small whimpers came, I felt a chill run through my body.
‘This WILL work. I’m going to break him,’ said Papà A, with a certain amount of satisfaction.
I gave a small whimper of my own and tried to turn my attention to the screen. As the screams grew louder, Papà A took the baby monitor and turned off the sound, so all I could see was the red flash of the light, which means full on screams. A flood of maternal instinct began to wash over me.
‘I’ll go.’
‘No, I’ll go.’
‘No, really.’ I set off up the stairs before he could stop me.
I opened the nursery door to see a small, frenzied child beating his head against the bars of his cot, screaming loud enough to break the sound barrier. As I walked towards him he raised his arms towards me to be lifted up. ‘Shh,’ I said, ineffectually, and stroked his forehead. There was a moment of silence, probably from shock, then he started again, louder than before. It’s hard to count to a minute when a baby’s screaming like that, but those are the rules. As I stood up and walked out of the door, my breasts began to leak as if they were crying in sympathy.
I came downstairs shaking.
‘Do you think, maybe, we could…?’
‘No! I knew you would crack if you went up there.’
Papà A and I have never had a row before, however there followed a few minutes that I shall not describe, since I suspect they would make neither of us look very good. Suffice to say that words were spoken through gritted teeth and I soon made my excuses and retired to bed.
The next morning when I went into the Boy Child’s room to start the day there were none of his usual smiles: he turned his head away. As the day went on, and he continued to ignore me, I began to panic. I started to imagine the therapist’s couch in years to come, the Boy Child now a suicidal adult, muttering that ‘of course, my mother never really loved me, she used to leave me to cry myself to sleep EVERY NIGHT.’
There were tears before bedtime that day, and not just from the Boy Child.
Most babies are, to use Papà A’s phrase, ‘broken’ after a couple of nights of this. Perhaps it is a tribute to the Boy Child’s staying power that it took him a week. Slowly, but surely, he began to get the message, and Papà A would come downstairs looking marginally better rested, and utter the longed-for words ‘he only woke up once.’
And finally, joyfully, the Boy Child started sleeping through the night. I have stopped dreading going to bed. I can walk up the stairs without feeling like I’m going to pass out. I have participated in a conversation where someone used the term ‘ideology’ more than once and I understood what was going on. In short, I am a new woman.
Even better, from DJ S’s point of view, is the change in underwear. One of the worst parts of pregnancy and childbirth, according to her, was the vile and enormous lingerie that it required. Underwires not being recommended as they can damage milk ducts, and flip down cups necessary for feeding, I have been forced to contain the Lady V bosom in bras that can only be described as serviceable. Still, installed in the front window of our kitchen, I would unhook said serviceable items and expose myself to passers by like a whore in Amsterdam’s red light district. I found breastfeeding an odd experience, involving bodily exposure in the most unlikely of places, from the middle of an Ikea showroom to an audience of giggling schoolchildren at a literary festival in the French Alps. Some women find it the zenith of feminine nurture. For me it was a bit uncomfortable, slightly embarrassing and somewhat damp.
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