Suck It Up, Cry It Out

After I have spent the first seven weeks of Cricket's life being a full-time, stay at home, snuggle-hungry mommy, it is, unfortunately, time to return to work.  Although I do NOT want to leave her in the slightest, I also know that there are certain things we can't afford if I didn't return to work: food, health insurance, a truck.  You, know those little extras.  So, much to my chagrin, I decide that I need to suck it up, slap on some heels, and bring home some bacon.  (On that note, doesn't bacon sound reallly good right now?)

Now, at this point, my sweet little Cricket is still not a big fan of sleeping anywhere but her swing.  On the average night, she can be found blissfully snoozing away in her swing while I attempt to negotiate sleeping around 15 different throw pillows on my couch and the resonating snore of my Jack Russell terrier.  When Otter gingerly suggests that my return to work may be the appropriate time to consider transitioning her to her crib, I politely (okay, more like through clenched teeth) inform him that if she's put down in her crib, she'll scream bloody murder.  So, the swing stays.

The Big Day rolls around, and I am surprisingly OK with it.  We drop her off at daycare, tear free (on my part anyway, Otter was a whole 'nother story), and call to check on her an appropriate amount of times (less than ten is good, right?).  Work is great, and I start to slightly enjoy the temporary reprieve from diaper duty.  Yes sirreee, by the end of the day I am walking tall and proud to be a working mommy.  4:00 rolls around and I traipse my way out to the truck with a smile, thinking this working thing isn't half bad.

Then, I arrive at daycare to pick up Cricket.  Meemaw, her babysitter (whose house always smells like something delicious is cooking in her crockpot), asks me what her sleeping schedule is at night, because apparently she has spent the better part of the day napping.  After a brief discussion of the swing situation and how Cricket seems to have her days and nights mixed up, Meemaw recommends we attempt the one thing I have been hoping to avoid since Cricket's arrival:  the dreaded Cry It Out.  No more swing, she says.  It's time to put her in her crib, and let her cry until she understands that this is bedtime.  I immediately want to cry even thinking about it, but I simply nod in agreement, stifle the tears in an attempt to seem like a mature, reasonable adult and bid Meemaw adieu for the day.  Then I get into the truck. 

A wave of emotion comes crashing down as I realize that as much as I hate to admit it, she's probably right.  But I just can't wrap my head around it; I'm angry, I'm scared, I'm tired, I'm anxious.  All I can think is that Cricket will grow up to hate me, blogging her nights away at 37 years old about how her inability to find a man or a job is directly related to how unloved I made her feel as an infant when I made her cry it out.  I picture her in a Cry It Out support group, clutching a cup of lukewarm coffee with tears rolling down her chubby cheeks.  She seeks solace in the arms of a butch lady friend, who croaks out an, "It'll be OK, Toots," and Cricket sobs forlornly as she polishes off donut number 7 for the evening.  Suffice it to say, by the time I get home, I am seriously considering placing her back in my uterus for another year so I don't have to deal with this.

For the remainder of the evening, until Cricket's bedtime, I pore over every child-rearing reference book I can find in my house and scour the internet for advice on the effects of the Cry It Out (CIO) technique.  I secretly hope I can link CIO to something awful, like adult onset acne, so I can convince Otter that this is a horrible idea.  Unfortunately, most of my research confirms what I am afraid of: it is not, in fact, torture or abuse to allow your baby to cry for as long as ten minutes, and developing good sleep habits now will contribute to her overall health and well-being for the rest of her life.  Damn it.

I poke Otter indignantly and inform him that if we're going to do this, he had better be ready to see me lose my junk in a hot tranny mess.  He had better not tell me I'm overreacting; it's in his best interest to secure me in a big bear hug, and provide ample Kleenex, as I'm sure I will suffer a nervous breakdown before the night is over.  Otter rolls his eyes, and sullenly agrees to support my drama-queenliness without disdain or sarcastic commentary.

The bedtime routine commences.  A little boob, a little bath, and into the swaddle she goes.  I rock her for a good ten minutes, hoping I have lured her into a deep enough sleep, and kiss her at least seventeen times on the forehead.  I whisper to her that I love her, and that she can have a brand new puppy every day of the rest of her life if she'll just fall asleep in her crib tonight.  I tell her I love her so very much, and that if she wakes up crying and I don't come get her, it's all Daddy's fault.  This was his idea, in fact, I tell her.  I rise gently from the rocking chair, and slowly, softly lower her into her crib.  I graze her temple with the tips of my finger and whisper, "I love you," one last time.  Then, I walk out.

I prepare myself mentally as I exit her room, and tell myself that as long as she doesn't cry for ten consecutive minutes, she needs to be left alone.  It's the right thing to do.  I round the corner, pick up my phone to use as a timer, and pause to listen for her.  And it begins.

She cries.  And not the wimpy, whiny little fuss that most babies make.  No, my child hollers like she's wedged in a vice, and gasps for air as though she's choking.  She wails.  She screams.  I sit on the floor outside her room, hold my head in my hands, and sob.  My yellow dog, Short Bus, passes by and sticks his cold, wet nose in my ear, assuming this will, of course, make everything alright.  When both Cricket's and my sobbing continues, Short Bus returns and places his favorite toy, Ribbit, on the ground next to my feet.  I glance at my phone, sure she's been crying for at least half an hour... Damn it, only three minutes.  The sobs continue.

I get up and trudge down the hall to our room, where Otter is watching TV.  I curl up in a ball on the bed and listen to Cricket cry as I sniffle and weep.  I snuggle into Otter's arms and try to fight back the tears as her sobs get louder.  I'm a horrible human being, I think.  There has never been a mother who has abused her child like this, and she will never fully recover.  Who needs a healthy, well-adjested sleeper?  She can sleep in her swing until she's at least 3, right?  I look at the clock again as her screams rise in intensity: six minutes.  I squeeze Otter as he buries his face in my hair and whisers, "I hate this."  I look up and realize that he, too is fighting back the tears.  We hold each other and try not to cry as her wailing goes on.

She cries.  As I watch the seconds tick by on the clock, I realize she's getting closer and closer to ten minutes.  I hope, selfishly, that she'll cross the ten minute line so I can run in and rescue her, and hold her to my chest.  Nine minutes.

Then, suddenly, she's silent.  We pick our heads up off our pillows and listen intently: still nothing.  I get up and quietly pad down the hall to her room to peek in her crib; she's asleep!

I run back to our room and jump on the bed, grinning from ear to ear.  She did it!  She put herself to sleep!  In her crib!  I don't know whether to laugh, cry, jump for joy, or pee a little.  I decide to wrap up my housework for the evening, pour myself a glass of wine, and relax for a few minutes.

Then, 20 minutes later, she's awake again.  She cries.  It's a little easier to hear, because I know she's fed, and I know she's safe, but it's still difficult not to cry.  This time, she puts herself back to sleep in four minutes.  Ten minutes later, she awakens again, and cries herself to sleep in two mintues.  I don't know if I should be happy or sad, so I just sit, wait, and listen.

The sleep/wake pattern continues haphazardly for the next three hours.  I alternate between telling myself she's fine and convincing myself she's having seizures.  I attempt to remain calm, and am comforted by my white dog, Sugar.  As I am no longer significantly pregnant, she can finally get on my lap again, so she makes it her mission for the night to be my four-legged blanket.  I don't object.

By eleven p.m., she has been asleep for half an hour; she wakes up again.  I realize she's probably ready to eat again, so I enter Cricket's room, de-swaddle her, and enfold her in my arms.  I cover her in kisses before changing her and re-swaddling.  We move to the rocking chair, where I hold her close, and feed her.  I feel at ease, and relieved that I can feel her skin on my skin again. 

As she nods off in my arms, I steady my nerves and rise out of the chair.  Time to try again.  I place her softly in her crib, and whisper that I love her.  I leave the room, stand outside her door, and wait.

And I wait.  And wait some more.  I glance at my clock and realize she's been down for fifteen minutes without making a peep.  Is this it?  Has she done it? 

I tiptoe to my bedroom and slide in between my sheets.  I listen, but hear no sound.  At some point, I drift off to sleep.

I hear her fuss.  I pull back the sheets and look at the clock, sure she's only been asleep for twenty minutes or so.  Wait, that can't be right.  3:11 a.m.?  Has she really been down for 3 and a half hours?  I rub my eyes and nudge Otter in the ribs.  "She's been asleep in her crib for 3 and a half hours!"  He grunts something inaudible and rolls over.  That's my Otter, always the life of the party.

We complete her feeding, and put her back in her crib, where she remains peacefully for the rest of the night.  Not a peep, not a fuss. 

I awaken the next morning thinking to myself that I hope this keeps working.  I go to Cricket's room and peek in her crib, the sunlight just beginning to brighten the nursery.  She's peering curiously about the walls of her crib, wide-eyed and quiet.  She turns her head towards me, looks up and see my face.  She smiles.

I pick her up and hold her close, realizing that she did, in fact survive.  My heart feels full as we dance around her room singing a rousing rendition of "Build Me Up Buttercup."  Her hair smells delicious and her sweet little cheeks feel like silk beneath my kisses.  All is right in the world.