My son didn't sleep for 5 years and I know how it ends

I have one of those kids.

The one that never sleeps.

I speak now from the other side (barely).

My sweet sleep-stealer

I am there.

It does exist: The Elusive Other Side.

I have spent HOURS on the fucking floor, at the end of beds, hovering at the doorway, waiting for the child to SLEEP.

I have read books on repeat, ad infinitum, hoping for that elusive moment where he is finally asleep...

Courtesy of www.crappypictures.com

I have tried sleep training, sleep cry-ing-it-out, sleep being-especially-nice and being entirely firm and shouting and crying and being so nice it hurts.
 Bribery, sticker charts, happy words, angry words, empathy.

I have been through the works.

I have had doctors, health visitors, friends, family, neighbours' opinions, hearing tests, sensitivity tests, blood tests...

Sometimes they Just. Don't. Fucking. Sleep.

I am speaking completely as a soldier from the other side of the war: in all honesty there is no secret 'thing', no tricks, no manipulation.

I'm so sorry.

The only bloody thing that has worked in the end, in the long run, at the end of the day, is TIME.

I've had all the books, the parenting manuals.

The bloody hypnotising rabbit.



I tried night lights and splitting the boys up and bunk beds and separate beds.

We had the family bed (my poor back), the floor bed (don't ask!) the sleepovers, the late nights, the early nights and the fairy lights.

Audio books. Done.

Sitting outside the door. Tick.

End of the bed.  Oh the endless hours.

Being a total bitch and telling him he HAS to go to sleep because we can't keep doing this, okay? You are a big boy now, you have to be able to go to sleep on your own...please...mummy has lots and lots to do and I'm just here, you can still see me, you can still hear me...while he sobs and pleads and begs and it all ends in tears from both of us...

Years.

Not days.

Not hours.

Not months.

Years.

Somehow...inexplicably...probably after one of those very very rare nights of sleep when Ethan was 4 years old and we had maybe had a holiday and some food and were genereally totally caught off guard, we decided a third child would be a magical addition to our brood.

Somehow.

Don't you judge me - being a parent is filled with the complete absurdity of spending a lot of time in absolute despair while also spending a lot of time in complete love and adoration for what you have made.

We had our third baby.

And LUCKILY, very very luckily, he is a dream to put to bed (much like the first).

Magically, Ethan has settled.

We have still had our problems.

It's not been perfect or smooth-sailing or completely a black-and-white progression, but somehow...it's good now (fingers crossed, touch wood etc etc)

He goes to bed alone.

In his own space,

He stays there all night.

Very occasionally. he gets into our bed and sleeps with us, but it's really not often (my back is a lot happier.)

Someone advised that I should write a piece to tell you all my secret of getting my son to sleep: I have no secrets.

There are no tricks.

He decided he was going to stay in his bed.

Some nights he still asks for s, but it's not half as bad as it was.


I know you came here on the promise that I was going to help you to get your kid to sleep.

I think what I really want to tell you is trope-y as fuck and a bit shit.

It will pass.

Your baby will stop being a baby.

He (or she) will consider himself (or herself) big enough to do it him (or her) self and they will do it.

And gradually, oh so slowly and surely, it will dissipate.

Suddenly it will be something that you used to do.

In the meantime, I suggest you do what you need to do.

I have regrets, sure , we all do as parents.

I DO NOT regret:

Putting him into nursery to get a break.

Buying more wine/beer to 'treat' myself after a particularly difficult session of getting him to sleep.

Trying absolutely everything with gusto.

Tapping out and letting my husband/mum/whoever else do it (so they can also realise I'm not making this shit up).

I DO regret:

The crying it out - it was fairly obvious he was never going to go to sleep this way and it made bedtime an absolutely awful process for both of us.

Not just letting him sleep in our bed when he requested it; there's an innate thing in a child to be nurtured - I don't know whose agenda I was playing to when I denied him that nurturing.

Not just going with my instincts and making a family bed. Or feeling judged for my feelings.   I was never FOR co-sleeping, but it sure as hell would have made or lives a helluva lot more easier if I'd simply just went with my gut feeling and let him go in the bed with us, if that was what it took to get a good night's sleep.

I'm sorry I have no magic cure.

I absolutley know what you were hoping for.

All I can say is, I have made it.

I am there.

There is an end.  It will come.

Hold on.  Be kind to yourself.  Be kind to your kid.

It will pass.

New Shoes

My littlest Blethering Boy got his first pair of shoes this week and he is super chuffed about them!

He loves his shoes.

I almost forgot how important these little milestones are for wee ones. And for us!

As a third child, I try really hard to not forget about all the wee things that make up Owen's babyhood.

It's not easy though, when we have so many other things going on.

Where most first-time parents are making everything about their littlest person, I am often caught unawares by the next stage.

It feels like my littlest guy, the one I wanted to hold onto the longest, is shooting up faster than I imagined.

With Thomas, it felt like I had an eternity of him; almost too much time.  I used to feel the strain of every minute detail and worried over the slightest thing. I did two baby books.  I wrote all the 'firsts' on a calendar. I made hand prints and foot prints and baby albums.

When Ethan came along, I felt the angst of dealing with two small children, picking at the small bits and trying my best to get through the day.

The two of them together were very hard work and I got little respite from that.

I always felt anxious for them to be more independent, to go to nursery, to spend time with others.  I needed the break, I needed to go to work, I needed them to play by themselves for a bit.  I needed to make sure they had good experiences and that I kept my promises and that we spent good time together as a famly; and we did.

And now, this third, sweet, delicious child.

The one we knew would be the last.

He fits in, slots in like we've had him forever.

We forgot the baby book.

We tried with the milestone cards (we really did).

But we are taking it all in.  Inhaling every moment deeply.

Every day I examine his face for changes.

I despair when he moves up yet another size in clothes.

His first shoes were a size 4!

We didn't spend £25 on his first pair, because we know a lot of things about baby shoes - how long they last, the liklihood of him losing one in the street, the grief and stress of spending wasted hours searching for the other shoe in parks and supermarkets; not worth it.

But he has shoes.

He is happy.

I wish he would stop growing!

That time my Dad left

Looking back on it now, I have no idea how you did that.

I was nearly 4 years old.

The same age as my youngest son is now.

I can recall what happened so sharply, it's like it lives in a special part of my memory which hasn't been clouded by time or pushed away by other, more important things. It lives in it's own wee space in my brain, just for me; to replay whenever I want.

Lucky me.

You are walking down the path.

It's a moment that tainted the rest of our relationship, and a moment, I am sure, to your adult mind that didn't really matter.

As an adult, you are less aware - and I know from experience now - of the impact you make on a child's life.

Of the long-lasting damage you can inflict with the tiniest, seemingly throwaway acts.

This is me

I'm so excited to see you - it's been ages!

It's so easy to dismiss the young.  To believe that they won't remember what happened.  To trust the future and that you have time to change it for the better. To figure that you'll be able to erase the bad and replace it with good.

Daddy's home!

I know that it wasn't all about me, as you pointed out when I was older.  I'm so lucky to have never been through divorce or separation in my own adult life, but I know enough to know that the child in that situation should not have been ignored.  Should not have been discounted, given the circumstances.

Where you going Daddy?  You come play with me?

Should not have been left out of your wedding plans to your new wife.  Should not have had to choose between you and the new wife when things went awry. Should not have been used as a pawn in the games between you two. Should not have had to watch you post my birthday card through my letterbox and disappear into the night without you even knocking the door to say hello.  Should not have had to explain my anger over a fraught telephone conversation at sweet sixteen years old in which you shouted me down for being 'too flippant'. Should not have been watched at my school gates on exam day.  Should not have had to reconsider a relationship with my own two brothers to avoid my own children being involved in some toxic relationships the way my sister and I were when we were only teenagers.

You coming home, Dad?  I got pictures for you!  I been playing outside, Dad!  Where you going?  What's in the bag?

It's been a great night out as we all chill in my brother-in-law's house.  We've had a lot to drink - everyone is laughing, spirits are high.  We get onto the topic of someone we know who has maybe fathered a child.  The guy's quite sure it's his.  Someone quips that the child in question won't care; the child in question will be happy with monetary recompense.  No dad - just money.  There's laughter.

And all of a sudden I'm shouting.  I'm shouting about how that's not true. How the guy should get a grip. That the child won't care about money, or gifts, or   how much guilt-laden presents it has to unwrap on Xmas day or masses of oodles of cash in a birthday card hastily shoved through the door, or a ton of chocolate eggs at Easter.  The child needs her father. Her daddy. And if she doesn't have him - the questions!  The pain! The guilt!  The longing! The constant wondering of why she was never good enough! That's what she'll go through!  Can't you see?

The room stills to a stunned and embarrassed silence.  Because it's embarrassing for them.  My oldest friend squeezes my hand secretly under the table - only he and my husband know what I've been through; they are the only two in this room that know me well enough to know my pain.  My eyes brim with tears and my husband holds my shoulder protectively.

I swallow hard, gulping back the threatening tears and take a drink as chatter resumes.  Awkward re-commencement of previous piss-taking.

The others are irked and put out by the little nearly four year old, the confused seven year old, the awkward eleven year old and the angry teen who has just walked into the room. They are annoyed at the realism suddenly intruding on their joke.  The girl with 'Daddy Issues' just spoiled the party.

I thought I was done with this kind of feeling.

I excuse myself and go to the toilet.

Daddy, where you going?  Can I come too?  You going shops?  I like the shops!

I don't know how you walked away from your daughter that day.  The wee lassie with the messy ponytail, big green eyes and full of fun. The same eyes my wee boys give me when they cheekily ask for chocolate, or want extra time to play or are sorry for spilling milk on the carpet.  How you managed to ignore the wee girl who was so pleased to see you as you entered the close door and went up the stairs.

How you met her enthusiasm and expectedness with mere indifference as you told her to 'wait there', pushing past her to get out of that door without explanation.

Your black and white, striped, shoes walking up those cold stone stairs, back down again and out of the self-locking close door, completely ignoring your daughter, your little girl, as she put her small hands on the  fractured safety glass and watched as your 6ft 4inch frame grew smaller and smaller, until it disappeared into the sihouette of her outstretched palm.

She cried.  A lot.  Confused, frightened tears.


Dad!  Where you go?  Dad?

DADDY!

I don't know how you did that.

Whether it was misjudgement, pure desperation, cruelty, disrespect, emotion...I don't know.

I look at my youngest son now and I just know how much it would destroy his whole life if I did the same now.  Or if his daddy did the same now.  I can't imagine it.

I'm at a playpark with the kids.  I'm helping the eldest climb the climbing frame - it's tough going, but we are getting there.  He's clumsy, with feet too big for his body.  He's going to be tall.  He's always been big for his age.

I feel like I'm being watched - someone's eyes are making me uncomfortable.  A tall man with black and white striped shoes disappears into the distance.

This is how we communicate now.  Through sometimes-you, sometimes-strangers -who-look-like-you-in-the-distance.  You are a figure in the showreel of my mind.

Always walking away.

Always disappearing into the distance.

Single words.

Flashes in the crowd.

I guess I'll always be the girl with 'Daddy Issues'.

I'm getting there though

Family as it should be!