Yesterday I napped with my two-and-a-half year old daughter. We haven’t bedshared (successfully) in almost two years. For the first seven and a half months of her feisty little life, we co-‘slept’ – we both got about twenty minutes of sleep during that whole seven and a half month period. The Princess hated sleep, and me lying next to her in bed provided the perfect distraction from sleep; there was hair to pull, ears to pinch and a flabby tummy to pummel.
She went into her own cot in her own room, and with no distractions, and aided by two blackout blinds, she found sleep.
Yesterday, at my parents’ house, after watching The Princess spin and scream and kick and throw herself into a tired, sleep-battling frenzy, I scooped her up, carried her to the spare room, and snuggled down with her. We fell into a cuddly, warm, limb-entangled snooze, her arm draped around my neck, my nose breathing in her baby-scented hair.
I woke an hour later with a foot in my flabby tummy, my wild-haired, wide-eyed daughter sitting over me demanding to be told a story about Ma and Bug and Pea. The perfect distraction from falling back to sleep.