Archive for the ‘Sleep’ Category

Let me be clear: pregnant women do not want your advice.   If they want it, they will ask for it.  And if they ask for it and then realize they disagree with what you are saying, they will probably go vacant-eyed and fantasize about ice cream until you stop talking.  

Mint chip.. Rocky Road... Wait, were you talking?

For the most part, pregnant women or their partners do not want to know what you think about swaddling, whether (and for how long) you believe in breast-feeding, or whether you decry pacifier use as moral downfall or uphold it as your family’s personal salvation.  It’s not that the topics of swaddling, breast feeding or pacifiers don’t interest them.  The problem is that advice givers are so invested in their own choices that their advice, rather than being neutral and informative, is actually a high-pressure sales pitch in disguise.  The expecting parent is like a person who doesn’t yet have a driver’s license but has wandered into a used-car dealership.  “You’re going to buy a car ONE DAY,” the peddler of advice is insisting, “why not buy MIIIIIINE?????  THIS ONE?????  Because I know this one is RIIIIIGHT??!?!?”  And you, the expecting parent, flounder to be polite without committing to anything.

To swaddle or not to swaddle?

My usual approach with expecting parents is to be vague and supportive on any topic.  They don’t need any judgment from me, and if they parent with love everything will probably work out just fine.  My stock phrases are “Every baby is different” and “Whatever works for your family.”  If the expecting parents press me and ask what I did with Miles, I usually answer honestly and then add one of my stock phrases.  Sometimes I finish with, “I’m sure whatever you decide will be fine.” 

Swaddling?  “We did it with Miles.  Whatever works for your family.”  Pacifiers? “Miles refused to take one.  Every baby is different.”  Burying the placenta under a neighborhood tree?  “Ewwww!  I mean, um, we didn’t do that. Whatever works for your family.  I’m sure whatever you decide will be fine.”

Pacifier dreams.

But I have opinions.  I’m not claiming my opinions are exclusively right or that they work for everyone.  (See stock phrases above.)  But here, without further disclaimer or self-deprecation,  are my honest opinions.  This is the stuff that I wish the future me could have flown back and told the pregnant me — the stuff I learned the hard way.

1. Baby wash cloths are not necessary.  They are cute, yes, and registering for them is fun.  But they.  Are.  Wash cloths.  Just use what you have at home and call it good.

2.  Pacifiers.  If you can get your baby to take one, thank your lucky stars.  More time on the pacifier is less time on the boob, which can be astonishingly helpful when you want to shower, make a bowl of cereal, or ride the subway in New York city without stripping.  Not that I would know, because Miles refused to take a pacifier.  He was a boob man through and through.  (In the photo at right, we put it in after he was asleep.  It didn’t last.)

3.  This brings me to breast feeding.  I recommend making it work if you can.  I think it’s better than formula (sorry!), but if you are going to breast feed, puh-LEASE don’t be sanctimonious about it.  Breastfeeding does not give anyone license to berate others. 

Plugged in.

If you try BFing and can’t do it, you are not a bad person.  If you try it and succeed, expect to have mixed feelings about it for the first several months at least.  It will sometimes hurt.  You will not necessarily feel “bonded” when your newborn wakes up every two hours at night wanting to latch on.  You will instead feel furious, cranky and tired.  You will think that all those people who described it as a beautiful experience were lying, and you will want to blow them up.   That is okay.  You (like me) may one day describe it as a beautiful experience.  And even though breast feeding in public is embarrassing and some people will freak out and give you flak for it, just do it.  You are feeding a baby in public, not masturbating, and your alternative is to go home EVERY TWO HOURS to feed your baby in private.  Just use a nursing cover or get used to being bare-breasted.

4. Those little baby outfits with the feet on them? Those are pajamas.  No one told me this.  Miles wore those day and night. 

5. Co-sleeping versus the crib.  As you may know, we slept with Miles for the first year.  Now he sleeps in a crib.  We were happy then; we’re happier now.  This really is an every-baby-is-different-whatever-works-for-your-family situation.  Whatever you do, don’t let anyone give you any lip about it.  Lie if you have to.

6. Speaking of lying, get ready to lie about your baby’s sleep.  Everyone will ask you, and no good can come of their response when you answer honestly.  In my experience, most babies sleep badly. Myths of newborns who sleep “all night” are greatly exaggerated.  Different babies respond differently to sleep training efforts, and those differences probably have more to do with the babies themselves than with anything the parents did correctly or incorrectly.  Yet the more sleep deprived you become, the more vulnerable you will be to other people’s advice, mockery, and judgment.  Protect yourself.  Lie!

Sleep is for the weak.

Different people ask about your baby’s sleep for different reasons.  Some — usually parents whose children are long grown or childless people who don’t want to ever have children — feel a cruel sense of pleasure at your suffering.  It’s true; they want to laugh at you.  People whose children sleep through the night want to confirm that they are better parents than you.  With these two types, you neither want to give them the satisfaction of knowing you suffer nor invite their unwanted advice.  When they inquire, smile sweetly and say, “She sleeps all through the night.” 

Others just want to tell you what you are doing wrong.  They may be well-meaning family members or neighbors or someone you meet in a parenting group.   They’re just sure that any baby will sleep for 14 hours at a stretch if you use their method.  Chances are good that, having tried every method, you will want to punch these people.  Take a deep breath and repeat after me: “He sleeps all through the night.”  If your baby magically sleeps all through the night, and anyone asks about it, just be vague.  DO NOT BOAST OR APPEAR TO TAKE CREDIT FOR THIS MIRACLE.  IF YOU DO, I MIGHT SPIT ON YOU.  Just say, “He sleeps okay.”  If the asker is another parent who looks exhausted and tortured by self-doubt, be vague and compassionate.  Try, “Some nights are better than others.”  If the asker is a friend who is genuinely concerned about your well-being but has no particular stake in the politics of baby sleep, maybe, maybe, MAYBE tell the truth, whatever your truth may be.  But do so at your own risk.

7. I won’t ask you how your baby sleeps, but I might hand you Good Night, Sleep Tight by Kim West.  It is the baby sleep book that saved us from baby sleep hell.  It’s my favorite because, like me, it’s more middle of the road.  It’s not a strict cry-it-out system like Ferber or Babywise, but it’s not a super-granola attachment parenting manual like The No-Cry Sleep Solution (which I tried valiantly to use for almost a year).  We used the methods in Good Night, Sleep Tight, Miles cried some but in a way I could feel okay about, and now he sleeps so much amazingly better.  He sleeps all through the night.  And I am not even lying.  Get this book.  Now.  NOW.

8. The Happiest Baby on the Block by Harvey Karp.  People will tell you it saved their lives.  Personally, I think it’s overhyped.  It worked for us about 60 percent of the time, which was helpful.  But you know what, sometimes all the swaddling and sideways laying and sucking and shhhhhing and swaying in the world does not work.  Sometimes they just cry. If you can borrow the book or DVD from someone, do.  If not, meh.  Whatever.

Dear Harvey Karp: You lied.

9.  Now for the best baby advice I ever received: Be gentle with yourself.  If you are a birthing mother, your hormones will be completely wack-a-doodle-doo for several months.  It is very possible that you will not know who you are any more.  If you are an adoptive mom, a dad, or any other kind of parent, you will still be going through intense experiences that change everything.  Everything.  New parenthood is surreal.  At times in the first weeks, I looked down at the crying bundle in my arms and could not remember its name or whether it was a boy or girl — I just knew I was supposed to appease it.  Give yourself a few months (or a year or so) for things to settle down.  You are doing a great job.  Trust me.  And, of course, congratulations!

This post is dedicated to Tina Anderson and Naomi Frame Powell, who have gracefully endured a great deal of unsolicited advice from me. 

Coming soon: The Breast Feeding Advice You Didn’t Ask For, The Stay-At-Home Parenting Advice You Didn’t Ask For, and more!


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Waking Up Is Hard to Do

After his nap Thursday…

Not. Happy. At. All.


Don't even think of smiling at me.


I'm okay, you're okay?


No! Awful! Terrible! Must throw grits!

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Party in My Crib

On Saturday, we began a version of sleep training with Miles, which will inevitably lead to another great blog post on the topic of sleep from Miles’ Mommy, who holds the role of researcher in this household and has posted on the topic before (here and here). But first came the chore of moving the crib back to the nursery from our bedroom — a job that required removing the sides to allow us to maneuver it through the doorway. Miles decided this was an opportunity to get his first hands-on experience with manual labor, which mainly included spinning the washers around the half-removed bolts. Luckily, his Mommy was there to catch us in action. Here are a few pics of my little helper:

Hey, we're working here!

Follow my lead, Momma.

Are you sure we're doing this right?

Hey, what's up there?

Nice work, Mom!

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Happy Birthday, Miles.  Now you are 1.  


This is officially your second October 11 on this earth.  One year ago yesterday, I got up from bed to pee and my water  broke.  Perching on the toilet and realizing that no one, particularly not a pregnant woman with a bladder the size of a walnut, could pee for that long, I realized what was happening.  I started calling your other mother’s name.  I called and called, but she was deeply asleep and wearing ear plugs.  So I hobbled back to the bedroom, leaking all the way, and shook her awake.  

We could not believe you were finally coming and that you would stop being this abstract source of heartburn and other, less mentionable digestive upsets, and become, for real, a human.   We were stunned, disoriented, and a little giddy.  (We still are, come to think of it.)

Early labor: still smiling.

One year ago today, after 18 hours of (mostly unmedicated) labor, a lot of very deep breaths, and a last-minute trip to the operating room, we met you for the first time.  I’ve written about that moment before.  It remains the most transformative moment of my life. 

From the beginning, you were yourself.  I’m not quite sure how else to put it, but if you ever have children you’ll know what I mean.  This probably sounds dumb to you now, reading this years later, but you were a person from the very first moment your Momma held you to my cheek.  You came fully formed, with likes and dislikes and mannerisms and tendencies and your own particular way of approaching situations.  These twelve months we’ve sat back and marveled at who you are, watching you unfurl.

So very little.

At the time of your birth you were so very new, and these were your chief accomplishments: possessing all the necessary extremities, making profound facial expressions, and sporting a head of tufted reddish hair that made the nurses exclaim.  Yet though you could not move or talk and would not have a name for a day or so, you were you.  You were already the person who now wakes from a nap pointing and asking, “Dat?”, who rewards us with crooked smiles, who chased pigeons while gripping one of our fingers for balance, and who touches new things delicately, with the tip of one pointed finger.  You’re calm, observant, gentle, mischievous, and affectionate.  You love food and wind in your hair and pointing at airplanes and being tossed up and down.


Tonight, after your bath, we were wriggling you into your pajamas.  You kept smiling at the yellow ducks on your pajama pants, charming us.  Your Momma said, “One year ago today, you were in my arms.”  She got to hold you and gaze blissfully at your face in the recovery room while the doctors put my guts back in and stitched me up.   The two of you talked of many things; I bet she’ll tell you about it if you ask her. 

One year contains wholeness — every season, every month, and every day.  Like you, it is a template with reassuring solidity, yet it contains infinite future variations.   Who will you be as your Novembers and Februaries and Fourths of July pile up?  Very likely, you will be calm, observant, gentle, mischievous and affectionate.   You will get over your passion for airplanes, and your vocabulary, currently comprising three sparkling, jewel-like words, will grow.  (Your three words are cat, bye-bye, and truck.)  You will speak in sentences.  You will walk without holding on — maybe even tomorrow.   You will also surprise us, awe us, terrify us. 

This year was not easy for me in particular, perhaps because the stakes seemed so high.  I was supposed to keep you alive, for gosh sake, and fatten you up and lure you into sleep and stop you from bashing your head on the furniture and let you explore.   At times I was absolutely dizzy with worry.  This year was also beautiful.  We love you madly, Miles.  We’re absolutely, terribly smitten with you.  Just when we think you couldn’t get more lovely, you astound us with unimaginable levels of delectability and genius.

Already ancient.

Happy birthday, dear one.  Happy first, and welcome to your second year.

Birthday morning.


Gotta be me.

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Cape Town

Miles is my hero.  And not just because he looks good in tie-dye, uses a paper towel roll as a bugle, and turns a bib into a cape.  He’s funny and gracious and open and kind.  I’m not sure yet what his superhero power will be when he grows up.  Empathy?  Humor?  Subtle innuendo?  Car repair?

Hear ye, hear ye!


Another admirable trait: he has the best post-nap hair.  Check out this ‘do from last week.

Like you just stepped out of a salon...

And finally, a good shot of those two teeth he worked so hard to grow.

Look at those choppers!

I heart him.  I seriously do.  Sigh.

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Miles is so cute I can hardly keep up with posting cute photos these days.  Well, actually, he is so everything that I can hardly keep up.  Unrolling the toilet paper, splashing my bracelet in the toilet, chasing balls, demanding that I hold his hands and walk him those three steps from the desk to the bookshelf.  He’s on to my tricks, too.  Did I think I could distract him with the tupperware AGAIN and get some dishes done?  Mwah ha ha ha ha!  No way, Jose, those empty baby food jars (and, okay, wine bottles) in the recycling bin are just too intriguing.

Just to make things exciting, he’s extra poop-tastic these days.  He’s got crazy, wild, outfit-destroying poops, as many as five a day.  I’ve explained to him that this simply doesn’t work for me.   Where are those nice, solid, lovely poops he’s been churning out once a day since we started solid foods?  Those poops that emerge silently and lie quietly nestled in the diaper as though afraid to offend?  These most recent poops assault the senses and horrify the intellect.  They’re vast, foul, and uncontainable.  Between this and his recent aversion to sleeping, it’s like having a newborn around again.  Except, he’s a newborn who can crawl, chase, and destroy.  Ay, yi, yi!

Maybe we can blame teething, the ever-handy scapegoat?  Teething causes diarrhea and disrupts sleep, right?  Right?  Blaming teething is so easy.  I can imagine myself taking it a little too far.   When Miles is 15 and wanting to drop out of high school to move to Oregon with his band, I’ll probably turn helplessly to Robin and say, “Well, he must be teething!”

Okay, I better go.  Miles is rearranging the books and records.  And I think I smell something emanating from his drawers…

Just try and stop me!

On a roll.

Bedtime? You must be joking!

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Miles and Diego

A few weeks ago, our friends Amanda and Pat came to visit from Washington, D.C., with their son Diego, born just a few weeks after Miles.  Amanda and Robin go way back, to Stanford.  Our sons being born right around the same time was a wonderful gift, and this visit would bring the two together for the first time. 

Love and drool abounded.  Diego is a joyful, active, fearless lad who is always on the go but can fall asleep anywhere in seconds.  He spends 90 percent of his time trying to get people’s attention by smiling at them.  If you ignore him, he smiles bigger and hunkers down like he is focusing the power of his smile.  We got fancy ice cream, went to the park, and hung out at our block party.  Now that’s a weekend.  Diego, it was a pleasure to meet you.  Come back soon.

First meeting.

At the Garfield Tot Lot.

Love machine.

Block party.

Pat and a hat.

Amanda and Diego.

Gonna getcha, Diego!

Tickle, tickle.

Block parties are exhausting.

Yes, asleep at the block party.

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