January 24, 2008


At the Children's Museum we learned that Guthrie is 31 inches tall. That's closer to three feet than to two. I know I've talked a lot about our sleep situation and here's our new chapter – wherein three people who are closer to three feet (or more) than to two feet can no longer comfortably sleep in a queen size bed together.

John and I have discussed this. At length. Neither of us are getting the quality of sleep we think we could be. Disclaimer: we are aware that we are parents and therefore will never be getting the sleep we could be, but, ehh, it could be a little better. We love the cuddle time and co-sleeping has given our family a wonderful start. That said…

Guthrie's crib mattress is on the floor next to my side of the bed. There's no way she'll go for a crib at this point. Talk about toddler hell! I can just imagine—what the heck? I had the run of the house before—now I'm supposed to stay in here and be happy? Yeah, right. We're happy with the thought of her staying in our room for awhile longer, so a mattress on the floor it is.

The Transition

I return home after a cooking class to find Guthrie post-bath in her pjs chasing the cat in a somewhat groggy manner. This girl is ready for bed. We say goodnight to the whole house, room by room, like we normally do, but when we get to our bedroom I say "ok let's get on Guthrie's bed." We both lay down on her mattress – yes, it's cozy, but we're not totally crammed. Huh. Guthrie's mattress looks like it's also been Zoe's mattress for awhile. Mental Note: wash bedding tomorrow because this is just kind of gross. I contemplate putting off The Transition till I can get said linens washed, but I decide this would just be an excuse.

Guthrie nurses. I situate the pillows that will keep her away from the poorly insulated walls. She nurses some more. I move around kitty and duck so she can see them or hold them. They're good friends, kitty and duck. She closes her eyes, turns over and promptly falls asleep. Huh. I sneak off the little mattress (that thing was so not intended for my use!) and back out to the living room.

An hour or so later we head to bed. She's not made a peep. As I settle into bed she stirs, cries a little and I rub her back thinking, if she all out cries I'll pull her up here. An hour on her bed is great for the first night. But, she doesn't all out cry. She goes back to sleep. What? I'd imagined hours of clinging and crying. On both our parts. And really, if I'm honest, I shed a few tears during this less-than-traumatic process this evening. Not to be dramatic, but it's kind of an end of an era. Baby girl is undeniably growing up.

John comes to bed. Still no peep from Guthrie.

John and I lay there. Isn't this great? The whole bed to ourselves. We can actually lay next to each other! Goodnight! We get to spoon unencumbered for the first time in a very long time.

And we lay there.

"Is she still breathing? I can usually hear her breathing. It's very reassuring." She is still breathing, in fact, she's snoring a little.

And we lay there.

"Is she warm enough?" I resituate the blanket. It's supposed be below zero tonight. She's cozy under there.

And we lay there.

The bed is huge. What was I thinking that we couldn’t all fit in it? And with two adults and one cat it feels so empty.

And lay there.

Guthrie wakes up enough to sit up and we listen to her try and figure out what's going on. I peek over at her (we've been pretending to be asleep- for her sake) and she's sitting there with her back to me looking at her bed and stuffed animals and rubbing her eyes sleepily. I know I could help her lay down and probably get her to go back to sleep, but I wait it out a little longer. She turns around and sees us and clambers up into our bed. Two hours on her own. Not bad. Two hours on our own. Complete torture.

"Thank God, now I can fall asleep."

And indeed John is asleep within 5 minutes. Guthrie has preceded him in very sound sleep and I follow shortly, but not before thinking: it would be awesome if Gus grew up to be an ear, nose, and throat doctor. This whole dang family, including the cat, snores. We're loud.

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