Thursday, 7 July 2016

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the bedroom...

Little O transitioned from a cot to a proper bed surprisingly well, back in September. However, he's currently suffering from a bout of separation anxiety. This means bedtime is now a combination of a battle of wills and playing the waiting game until he falls asleep. Even if that's half past eight, nine o'clock, or quarter to bloody ten.

I'm unsure whether anything has caused this sudden sleep regression or not. It only started a couple of weeks ago so I'm loath to think it has anything to do with the arrival of Baby R. He could be experiencing a developmental leap, or just simply being a giant pain in the ass. Who knows. All I do know is that this isn't the first time and probably won't be the last, so all S and I can do is weather this phase until it passes. That's what my sensible, rational head is saying, anyway.

My knackered, and frankly ravenous, head is reminding me that it's nine o'clock, I haven't eaten for five hours and there's a Papa Johns with my name on it just waiting for my call.


It is hard to remain patient but I must. Experience has taught me that telling Little O off is akin to hitting the Waltzers with a hangover - it's only going to make the situation a whole lot worse. And I may joke, but I know he's not doing it on purpose. Every time he splutters "Mummy's gone! Muuummy!" in between sobs, my heart takes a dive. My instinct tells me to wrap my arms round him and kiss his sweet head. But I also know I can't stay in his room all night. So, I try to reassure him, settle him down, then sneak out once more.

And at least I can use the waiting time to wash off the war paint. Woefully, these days, putting the boys to bed is also my cue to peel off the skinny jeans and get pajamafied. That is, if I can get through the process without Little O realising I'm not there and balling his eyes out. Ten minutes of head-stroking and an achy arm later, and I'm inching out the door like Donald Trump in Chiquitos.

Every parent with a young child knows which floorboards creak the most, how much to turn the door handle to avoid the squeak, how long to wait until the microwave can be used, and how loud the TV can be to avoid waking 'Hurricane Toddler'. And I'm no different. I, too, have made the desperate dash to the front door, to intercept the grocery delivery driver before he rings the doorbell.

Maybe tonight will be the final night. Maybe tonight Little O will march triumphantly into the Land of Nod, safe in the knowledge that Mummy isn't going anywhere. Maybe tonight both Little O and Baby R will be sound asleep by eight o'clock and sleep through for twelve hours. Hey, I can dream, can't I?

A Mum Track Mind

4 comments:

  1. I feel your pain. We've all been there. But one day will be the final night and they'll be grown up and independent before you know it.
    #fortheloveofBLOG

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  2. I feel your pain, we seen to have these stages every so often. Just when I forget about the last one, just when I think we have cracked it we have a sleep regression. At leawst it does pass. Stay strong, stay with it.
    #fortheloveofBLOG

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  3. It is so hard when this happens. My 3year old was like this when he was about 18months. He soon grew out of it and started sleeping again but it was so hard at the time. Fingers crossed things get better and you start getting good sleep again soon xx #fortheloveofblog

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  4. I hope it's just a phase and it passes for you. I hate it when they won't find to sleep when all you want to do is relax, or get on with something that really needs doing. Like you I know exactly where all the floor boards creaks are, and wince when my husband shuts the bathroom door too loudly. Thanks for linking up at #fortheloveofblog. Claire x

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