Hold Your Baby
My four-year old son and I co-sleep, every single night, just as we have since he was a few months old. I share my bed with a wiggly four-foot tall and 55lbs child, who moves constantly, routinely punches me in the face while sleeping and occasionally wipes boogers on me while half awake. I lay with him as he falls asleep, and go to him if he wakes before I’m in bed (which is often, even at age four).
Before I had him I swore I would never be this mom. My child would sleep in their own bed, my child would go to sleep easily on their own, my child would self-soothe. But that didn’t happen. Oh boy did that not happen.
I’ve learnt since having my son that I roughly follow “attachment parenting philosophies,” and I would generally now call myself an attachment parent. The difference being, however, that most of the parents who fall into this category start out on this route out of deep sense of love and nurturing for their child. I did it because I was scared I would kill him if I didn’t.
Depression was a constant throughout my pregnancy. It hit fast and hard early on, then was continuous throughout the nine long months. I was certain, however, that when the baby was placed in my arms I would be hit with a wave of undying love and it would all be worth it. Unfortunately, when they placed my son in my arms I didn’t feel love at all—I felt resentment. I was tired and now I had to take care of a baby. Great.
I waited for love to grow over the coming days and weeks, and gushed to people about this sweet baby I had. But in reality I felt nothing. I promised myself right away that I would at least take care of him until I felt any tiny sense of affection towards him, just as I had cared for children I had babysat and nannied. I nursed him for hours, even as my nipples bled, I changed him and I followed every direction my midwife and lactation consultant gave me. When he was a month and a half or so old I had read that it was good to put your baby down before they were asleep, to help them learn to fall asleep on their own. As I started doing that, I also realized that each day his cries bothered me less. His discomfort bothered me less. I still resolved his discomfort—it just didn’t bother me that he was uncomfortable.
This stopped me in my yoga-pant-spit-up-covered tracks.
I realized that if his discomfort didn’t bother me now, over time I would become less attached than I already was. Complete disconnection would take over, and I would likely kill or abandon him. Because I simple didn’t care.
From that day forward, I held him constantly. I rocked him to sleep every naptime and night, repeating to him and myself “I love this baby, I love this baby, I love this baby” over and over and over again while envisioning us in a circle of light and love. For hours. It became the mantra that guided my life.
Slowly but surely (in combination with medication to treat my severe postpartum depression), a small sense of attachment and love began to form. Little tiny bits of love. My gushing of how much I loved him and how lucky I felt to be a mom started to have a shred of truth to them. By the time he was about six months old, I could confidently say I loved my son and mean it. Three and a half months of holding him and rocking him and repeating that mantra, over and over, worked.
So yes, my son still co-sleeps with me at age four, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. Eventually he will probably decide to move to his own bed and begin to independently sleep through the night, but I’m in no rush. While the postpartum depression has long since gone, the memories of despising and resenting my son are burned in my brain. They remind me of how dark your mind can become when overcome with mental illness, and push me to continue responding to his every need—to hold and feel his pain and fear and hurt as if it was my own.
I am an attachment parent and I love my son more than oxygen or life itself. But I stumbled into this out of hatred and fear and desperation. So I beg of you: hold your baby, even if you don’t want to—especially if you don’t want to. If their cries stop to not bother you, force yourself to experience them as your own. Find your own mantra of love if you find yourself in a dark place of disconnection from your baby. The love will come, even if you have to brainwash yourself into it.
The love for your baby, even if initially you have to fake it or force yourself to feel it, will be so worth it. So, so worth it.
