Bedtime Battles
You're not the only one facing the ongoing battle of bedtime!
Sleep. Wish I got more of it. Goodness knows it’s hard enough to sleep when you’re 8 months pregnant, and it’s at least 30 degrees and humid with it. But it’s not my sleep problems that are causing me the biggest hassles.
My lovely wonderful gorgeous son, William, is having bedtime issues. Again. In the beginning, you work on getting your little baby to sleep, according to whatever regime you choose to follow – Plunket nurses, books with calm, whispering titles, wrapping, dummies – or whatever works. Sleep deprivation of new parents is one of the cruellest forms of torture.
Some way or another, you move on from those early days. You think you’ve dealt with the sleep demon. But no, as you come to learn as you parent, this particular demon is a recurring one. Every now and then, we have a battle with sleep. William has fought, (and won) this war often. But he hasn’t always had a tough time going to bed. There have been long, long periods where he was tucked up and fast asleep by half past six, sleeping all night undisturbed. But sometimes, for absolutely no reason I can see, it all falls apart.
When he was tiny, at least he was confined in his cot. But by fifteen months old, the tiny acrobat had learnt to climb (or at least fall) out. He would swing his legs and torso up along the top of the rail, and drop with a sickening thud to the wooden floor. He didn’t seem to hurt himself, but it was giving his mother palpitations, so we made an early move to the big boy bed.
Initially, it was just a mattress on the floor. Wearing his big night-time cloth nappy, he couldn’t swing himself up onto base and mattress unaided – funny that, given he had no problem climbing out of the cot similarly hindered. And I figured that no matter how much he played with his toys, he would eventually be tired enough to collapse on the mattress, which is what happened. Peace was restored.
But now that he was out of his cot, he could stumble to his door in the middle of the night, crying and lost. I’ve always been a fan of completely shutting the door, so at least he couldn’t wander the house, but the small sobbing boy pulled on the mothers heartstrings so much that there began a phase of middle of the night bed transfer. His to ours. I recall this being connected with Will being unwell, the more to play on his mothers weakness. This lasted a while until the feet in my back, the fingers in my ears and the standing on my hair annoyed me enough that I got tough and we endured a bit of middle of the night crying in order to enjoy our own bed again.
But here we are again. The last few months, we have been having problems going to sleep. Or at least William has. We do the whole regular bedtime routine, bath, jamies, teeth, stories (always two, no more or less) and kisses. But come the end of the stories my tired-eyed, relaxed boy gets a glint in his eye. He’ll make a streak for the bedroom door, running out to the garden if he can make it. He’ll scream and cry. He’ll jump on his bed like a trampoline. When I shut the door to ignore the performance, he’s been completely destroying his bedroom. Cupboard emptied out, drawers pulled out and contents flung around. He’s climbed the drawers like a ladder. He’s attempted to climb out his window. He’s tipped the bookcase over, and ripped up the books, broken the toys.
What to do? I’ll tell you what I’ve already done. I’ve ignored. I’ve stood outside the door, marching in to insist he stay in his bed the second I hear movement. I’ve talked seriously. I’ve shouted. I’ve latched the cupboard and windows to make them impossible to open. I have taken his special things, like his snuggles, as ransom. I’ve made a star chart, which spectacularly failed. I’ve sat with him for up to an hour, quietly insisting he lie down and go to sleep.
Finally, I’ve removed all the things from his room, so nothing can be destroyed. All he has left is his bed. Which he still pushes around, on it’s base, to use as a trampoline. Yes, it is heavy, and no, it doesn’t have wheels. There are no books, no toys, no bookcase, no draws. On seeing this, Will said “Where my room gone?” I explained that as he couldn’t treat his things nicely, he couldn’t keep them in his room. He was unperturbed. It made me feel better knowing that no damage could be done, but sad that I had made his room like a prison.
We are still fighting this particular war, but I think I might be winning. The last few nights I’ve only gone in twice. I’ve rewarded this by returning a small bookshelf and a few books. We’ll see. I’ve learnt enough to know the rules of engagement can change at any time. I hope that those of you with adventurous two year old boys are comforted by the knowledge that someone else is fighting the same battles. And that those of you with sweet sleeping babies are not too scared. |
