So my kids are apparently 19-month apart twins (yes, I am already explaining to strangers that a skinny toddler + a fatty 4 month old does not equal womb-mates.) Come on people, the (slightly) larger one speaks in complete sentences, while the shorter fatty dabbles in projectile vomiting and gummy smiles. So yes, anyway, clearly twins.
As I sit here contemplating whether or not to air their dirty, sleep-deprived laundry on the internet, the slightly smaller one is moaning at me from his impeccably decorated nursery (maybe it’s too pretty for him to sleep?) while the bigger fellow utters plaintive cries from the basement. Which is now his bedroom. Which I can only hear because they drift up through the floorboards and slowly erode what was left of my sane mind.
Ironically, the last two nights have been our best ever. Ever. In nearly 2 years of exterior parenting. And tonight, by golly, we will try our damndest to painstakingly re-create the magical elixir of ambient sounds and circumstance to try for a hat trick. So, here’s hoping.
The thing about these two precious boys is, they were both born without the desire to sleep. One prefers falling asleep briefly and popping up every, oh, 20 minutes or so to say heeeeeeeey, and the other prefers to scream/talk/whine it out for about an hour until he surrenders to a slumber so light, we brush our teeth slowly so as to make less noise. And forget about flossing. What if he hears the box click shut? Oh the horror.
We’ve read our way through the gamut of sleep-training handbooks, everything from the mildly sadistic Babywise to the straight up commune-style Dr. Sears manifesto. And a few in-betweeners like the Baby Whisperer, Healthy Sleep Happy Child, and, while I’ve yet to crack open my own copy, I’ve heard good things about ‘Go the *$(% to Sleep.’ So maybe we’ll try that next.
Anyway, last night was awesome, naptime today is crashing and burning, and I just ripped ‘Bun Bun,’ Joey’s beloved stuffed rabbit gifted to him at birth by grandma, from his clutches. And now he is softly weeping himself towards what I hope is dreamland and not the psych ward.
Time will tell.
Any hints, mamas? And not to get all judgy, but we just got the small fatty out of our bed and it would take a home invasion of vigilante tigers with machetes and napalm to get me to take him back under our covers, so … yeah. We’re not into co-sleeping.