table for two

It's not often that I'm alone with all three kids. When I am, it's usually for just a few hours and it goes surprisingly well...except, of course, when it doesn't. Andrew left for work this evening, and about an hour and a half later, I sent him this text:

So far...complete shit show.

And that's not an exaggeration. It was chaos. During that hour and a half, Harriet watched an hour and ten minutes of Barney. Barney is useful because he puts her in a sort of cooperative, I'll-do-whatever-you-say-as-long-as-you-let-me-keep-watching-this-purple-dinosaur trance. She doesn't like to eat, but Barney helped her eat a microwaved corndog (full disclosure - it was her third in three days). Barney also helped me get her to pee on her little potty chair...I literally carry the laptop in front of her like a carrot dangled in front of a mule as we walk to the bathroom. My respect for myself as a parent sort of goes out the window whenever I use this technique, but it works, so whatever.  Barney wasn't especially useful with the whole teeth brushing thing, because she still threw a fit. Thanks for nothing, Barney.

While I'm doing all of this, the boys are screaming...like off and on for an hour and a half. I pick up the loudest and/or reddest one and hold him until the other one matches the first in intensity. Then I lay the first boy down and pick up his brother. We do this taking turns routine until one or both of them fall asleep. But even that only lasts a couple of minutes.

So I'm carrying this dumb laptop and a baby around, trying to get my toddler to cooperate with the bedtime routine and she's throwing little fits about...I'm sorry...the dumbest stuff ever, like the importance of holding the handrail on the way up the stairs and which sort of toothpaste we need to use. And it kind of blows my mind that she thinks that these things matter at all in the midst of such chaos. I mean, can she not hear two tiny boys absolutely losing it in the background? But then I remember that she's two, so yeah, it totally matters...even though one particular brother looks and sounds like he's a couple breaths away from complete combustion.

I'm not one for letting babies this little cry it out...day or night. I am their mom and it's my job to help them. When I pick them up, they instantly calm. In fact, they melt. They just want to be held and whispered to. And I can do that, so I do...as often as I can...which isn't as often as I'd like because, like every parent out there knows, there's always someone or something else pulling on one of our arms or legs. So I get a little panicky every now and then, wondering what sort of awful damage is being done to my children due to the fact that sometimes, despite our best efforts, they have to cry for a while. I worry about attachment. I worry that they won't feel as loved as Harriet has. I worry that they'll give up on me when I don't seem to heed their calls. But then I remind myself that my best is my best. It's all I've got.

So anyways...I get Harriet to bed (early, in fact...woohoo!). Louie has tired himself out by this point...classic Lou. And Gus is raging red as a raspberry...classic Gus. I change them, swaddle them and put them in their little rocking bassinets, looking like two cranky little egg rolls.

This is out of the norm. Usually, I'd plop them into their boppy's. One on each side of me on the couch. I'd shimmy into my nursing pillow like it's an inner tube and hoist them onto it one at a time. I'd latch Louie first, then Gus. Lou finds it quick, always desperately hungry but still with his wits about him. Gus is usually stiff as a board and I have to coax him to bend his knees so that he can nestle in under my arm and find what he's looking for.

When they're both latched, I wait. It doesn't take long for my milk to come in, fast and strong. That's when the games begin. The boy on the left unlatches first and milk goes spraying everywhere. When this happened to Harriet and I, I'd catch the squirting milk with a burp cloth, but with the boys, both of my hands are tied up, so we just sit there while the milk soaks our clothes. The baby on the left is crying, no doubt because he thinks he's drowning. When I finally get him calm and re-latched, the son on the right is squirming and making faces like he smelled something awful. He needs to burp. This isn't a surprise. I've been hearing him suck air while he guzzles the rush of milk. So even though he's only been drinking for a few minutes, he already needs to get rid of that extra gas. I squeeze my arm underneath him and lift him to my shoulder. In the process, I squish his tummy a bit so he spits up on me. I burp him for a while. He lets out a couple of big ones, all the while trying to climb away or something. I have no idea what he's doing but he's certainly not cooperating. I get him re-latched and now the baby on the left needs to burp. Somewhere along the way, one boy inevitably tries to eat his brother. And this is how it goes until I decide we're done. I get them both in a safe spot with their heads elevated so that they don't lose more of their lunch, and I look down at my shirt. I am completely drenched. Sometimes I change my shirt, but I never change my bra because I have two nursing bras that I like, and I'm not risking having both in the wash at the same time. By evening, I'm transported back to summer days in my childhood - that feeling of wearing a wet swimsuit all day long. As a kid, it's fine. As an adult, you feel like you're getting trench foot...except in your bra.

So back to those cranky egg rolls...Tonight, I decided to forgo the breast in favor of bottles. Now you need to understand, these bottles were the third and forth bottles I have personally fed my children...ever. Andrew had to teach me how to heat it up before he left for work. When I put that rubbery plastic in their mouths, part of me wanted to cry. But then I got myself together and decided to enjoy it. I sang them John Denver and CeCe Winans. I smiled into their beautiful, sleepy eyes. And you know what? It was actually kind of nice.

I wasn't wet at the end. No one spit up. No milk went spurting everywhere. The boys didn't cry or make those sad, gassy faces. And I thought, Wow...could that have possibly been more peaceful and straightforward? I never understood moms who pumped and bottle-fed until that moment.

And that scares me a little...okay fine, it terrifies me. I don't want to give up nursing. I love nursing. I just worry that we're not going to figure out how to make this work. I worry that every feeding is going to be a battle.

And now I'm super mad at myself for not going to bed immediately after I put them down. I've now spent forty minutes blogging and eating rhubarb crisp directly out of the pan when I could be sleeping. So I'm vowing to do it differently tomorrow...never gonna happen.

--------------------------

So now it's 2:30 in the morning...the boys slept six hours straight after I gave them those bottles - their longest chunk so far. It's bittersweet. I'm so glad that they slept such a long time. I feel amazing after sleeping five straight hours. But it kind of makes me wonder if I'm the problem. Much of the time, when I tandem nurse them, it's wonderful. Seeing those four beautiful eyes staring up at me and snuggling their warm little bodies brings on overwhelming feelings of joy and gratitude. More than a few times, I've cried happy tears while nursing them...like this day:

Maybe it's weird to take crying selfies but I love to remember these moments. 

Andrew was outside working on the yard. Harriet was upstairs napping and I was burping the boys after a feeding. He peeked his head in the patio door and asked if I wanted him to put them in their bassinets so that I could stand up. I shook my head no. He asked if I was okay, and I just started to cry. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, just looked at me and smiled.

"We have a great life, don't we?" he said.

I nodded. "So many of our dreams are coming true."

There's something about nursing these boys, and specifically nursing them together that brings out so much beauty in this mother/children relationship. I'm not giving that up just to get more sleep, and the good news is, I don't think I have to.

Here's my theory. I think that the bottles seem to work better at night for several reasons. First, they don't spit up with bottles because I'm not jostling them around trying to keep them both latched, trying to burp one while the other eats, then switching them up. They're just in one spot, so they don't get sick from having their tummies scrunched and all that. Also, they control the rate of flow with the bottles, whereas when my milk comes in, it's kind of a firehose effect. There's no way for them to turn it off, so they gulp and gulp, which leads to upset tummies. Also, they fall asleep more quickly at the breast than with bottles, probably because with bottles, it's more about the business of eating and isn't as comfy-cozy. Lastly, because I have such an abundance of milk (I'm freezing over 100 ounces per week in addition to the milk that's feeding Lou and Gus), they have to eat a long time to get to the hindmilk (the really rich stuff that keeps them full longer). When I pump and fill up bottles for them, the hindmilk and the foremilk all mixes together. I know that an abundance of milk is a great problem to have, but it's still a problem. And pumping before feedings doesn't help all that much. In fact, I think it makes the problem worse because it makes me produce even more milk.

So I think I'm going to do bottles at night and nurse them during the day. I keep reminding myself that they will be sleeping through the night soon (maybe wishful thinking), so who cares if we do bottles for a couple of months? I also keep reminding myself that Harriet went through this same thing at the same age. She actually seemed to develop a fear of nursing which lasted over a month. As she got bigger and could handle the flow better, the problem just fixed itself. I'm hoping the same happens for the boys, but pushing through the problem just feels a little harder with two babies than it did with one.

I'm also going to do more individual feedings. Nursing them one at a time has its perks - I can walk around the house and do things while I feed them or I can give that baby my undivided attention. I can read Harriet a book and turn the pages, or we can sit on the floor and build a block tower. So most of our feedings have become individual, but I'm trying to do at least one or two tandem feeds per day just to keep up the skill, because I'm guessing that if you don't use it, you lose it.

I'd love thoughts, input, stories and tips from any of you tandem nursing moms out there...or regular nursing moms...or dads or grandmas or anybody! This is so important to me, and I can take all the help I can get.

upon the waters

Last summer was a hot one. It's hard to imagine it while waiting out this everlasting winter, but the end of July and most of August were scorching. So every morning, before the heat set in, I threw on my running shoes, strapped Harriet into the jogging stroller with her breakfast, and we took Murphy for a good run. I'm not a runner. I ran because Harriet only has so much patience for the stroller and because it's a better workout for the dog. I listened to music for inspiration, playing it from my iPhone without headphones on so that Harriet could hear it too. A little Katy Perry, some Miley Cyrus...upbeat stuff to help me keep my pace. But oddly enough, there was one song that kept me running more than any other - a slower song, nearly impossible to dance to, not the typical workout playlist staple. It's called Oceans and it has gained lots of popularity in churches and on the radio in this last year. As I ran, I contemplated the words...

You call me out upon the waters,
the great unknown,
where feet may fail.

The song refers to that miraculous story in the Bible where Jesus is walking on the water in the midst of a storm. His friends are in the boat, terrified for their lives. He welcomes Peter to step out of their vessel and onto the waves - the ultimate test of trust. Peter does it - not without fear or second guesses, but he lifts himself over the boat's rail and places his feet on the water's churning surface, his faith in his Savior keeping him above the treacherous waves. As I ran and listened to the lyrics, I pictured myself in Peter's sandals and wondered whether I would have trusted enough to do the same.

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders.
Let me walk upon the waters,
wherever you may call me.
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger 
in the presence of my Savior.

The singer repeats these words over and over again, and as my feet pounded the solid, dry paths, I visualized a "trust without borders" and I wanted that. I imagined where Jesus might call me, how He might stretch my faith. And slowly, carefully, like Peter stepping out of that boat, I began to make the words of that stanza my mantra. I began to beg that of Jesus - that He would make my faith borderless, infinite.

This was terrifying.

I know that I serve a God who is completely and utterly good. A God who loves me endlessly. But I also know that sometimes He makes choices that my finite mind never would have made, choices that cause me pain because I can't even begin to comprehend them with my limited scope. I knew that He would answer my request to grow my faith but I didn't know how. I was fearful of what my "great unknown" would look like. I imagined awful things - an illness, an accident, a loss - you know, those unspeakable events that wound us nearly beyond repair but are, in the end, supposed to make us better, stronger people.

But then...I was pregnant again, against all odds. And there were two babies, against all odds. I remember in those first days and weeks, people asking me how I was feeling about the news. Of course, the most powerful emotions were elation and blessing, but there was also a part of me that felt sobered by this new development. I felt, in some ways, like I was going into battle - a private, miniature battle against gravity and time and anxiety. And as I've walked through this pregnancy day by day, I have realized that this is it - this pregnancy (and assumedly motherhood afterwards) - is God's answer to my request for trust without borders.

Really? While He has others wait endlessly and suffer unimaginably, He grows my faith through joy and blessing? Not that I have been completely unfamiliar with struggle and not that there isn't more of it in my future. Of course there is. But for now, He seems to have chosen to gently stretch the borders of my trust with a priceless gift rather than ripping them away like I foolishly expected Him to. To say that I am humbled by this...no words can express how much.

This journey over the past thirty-seven and a half weeks has not been easy. That's for sure. The discomforts get worse by the week - swollen feet, arthritic joints, trigger finger, nausea, back pain, pulled muscles, difficulty breathing, extra weight (a full sixty pounds), limited mobility, restless legs, and insomnia...oh, the insomnia! At my final OB appointment today, I burst into tears while telling the doctor that I got two and a half hours of sleep last night and three and a half hours the night before. Even with Benadryl and a homeopathic sleep remedy on board, I can sleep for maybe an hour at a time. It's making me feel crazy...and rather anxious because I was so hoping to go into the birth feeling well and well-rested. It's not going to happen that way. And I feel silly saying it, but it's true - these little discomforts have stretched my faith more than I would ever have thought.

While I have had many aches and pains, there have been no complications. Not one. Not even a close call or a test that warranted repeating. Nothing. These babies have surprised me and the doctors by staying put in my very short torso for a full thirty-seven weeks without even a hint of dilation, not a single contraction. I am so, so grateful. I am clearly not a medical professional, but I really wonder if part of the reason that they have stayed so solidly put is their breech positioning. While I have had a bruising type of pain in my pelvis for about a month (feels like a did a hundred-mile race on a road bike yesterday), I have absolutely no pelvic pressure. These babies' heads are right up under my bra line and their butts are high too, so although I've bemoaned their breech status and the fact that I have to have a c-section, perhaps this should be more a matter of gratitude than complaint. Perhaps if these babies were vertex, those little heads (which a growth ultrasound recently put in the 89th and 98th percentiles) would have pushed themselves out much, much earlier. Again, a reason to trust that His plan is far greater than mine.

Every once in a while, I feel sad about the idea of a c-section. I feel sorry for the babies. I feel worried about the recovery. And I feel...oh how spoiled this is going to sound...even cheated. It sort of feels like running the majority of a marathon, only to hand the baton to someone else at the twenty-six mile mark and watch them cross the finish line for me. Is there part of me that's a little glad to be done at 26 miles? A bit tired and relieved that someone else is tackling the final fifth of a mile? Of course. But deep down, I want to do it. All of it. Even the messy, excruciating parts. Maybe even especially those parts. I have done it before and I know I could do it again. Even with twins. Even in an operating room with lots of people watching. So yes, sometimes it bothers me to be finishing this way.

But lately, I have become much more content with the idea of a c-section. I think this is partly due to the fact that I have tried and tried to flip these babies. I saw a chiropractor several times. I visited an acupuncturist who did moxibustion. (I tried very hard to believe in both of these practices, but when the acupuncturist in the Hawaiian shirt commented that holding the moxa stick felt like holding a crystal wand due to the energy pouring out of it, I nearly laughed out loud. All I knew was that it smelled really, really, really bad. I bought four of the sticks anyways, fully intending to use them at home...but then my dog chewed them up, so that was the end of that.) I laid upside-down on a board that we rested against the couch and nearly died of a coughing fit when the babies came crashing into my diaphragm. I put icepacks where their heads are, hoping that they'd turn to escape the cold. Nothing worked. And although some of these things were a bit miserable, I'm glad I did them so that I can at least say I tried. Baby B is bigger than Baby A anyways (sizes roughly estimated at the growth ultrasound to be 6 pounds, 5 ounces and 6 pounds, 14 ounces), so even if they flipped head-down, the doctors still wouldn't want to deliver vaginally. They like the first baby to be bigger and pave the way.

And as with anything, even the less attractive option has a positive side. A friend recently told me that when she had her c-section, she felt so grateful that she could come out of it feeling fresh and ready to mother her baby rather than dog-tired and in desperate need of a long hibernation. I can absolutely identify with that, especially given my recent lack of sleep. So again, perhaps this c-section is a gift - another gesture straight from Jesus, beckoning me to trust His plan and join Him amidst the waves.

Another area that brings me anxiety is my daughter. She is going to be a fabulous big sister. I know that for a fact. But every time I think of expanding our family, of stretching my love to include other children whom I have not yet met, I want to cry. Often, I do cry thinking about leaving her behind as we head to the hospital. We are desperately grateful to have both families nearby and I know that she will be fully loved and entertained during the four days that I am in the hospital, but the thought of nuzzling and nursing and loving on these babies while Harriet is across town breaks my heart. She is more resilient than I give her credit for and she will be just fine sharing her mama, but I am already grieving that time with just her and I. Most mornings, I go into her room and hold her and bury my face in her neck and tell her that she is my best girl in the whole wide world. And she adamantly disagrees, saying, "No Mama, you are my best girl in the whole wide world." Can we still say that if there's a little sister? I am so grateful to my wise, wonderful doctor who, without me having to even bring up this issue, randomly warned me that it would be very normal to feel a little bothered by the possible lack of love I feel for the twins at first in comparison to the adoration I have for Harriet. Normalizing is always helpful. And even more than that, I know that this is another area where I am being asked to trade my fear in for faith and to trust even my daughter to His capable hands. Because He loves her immeasurably more than I do...it's hard to even fathom that but wonderful to believe it.

So those are my final thoughts on this twin pregnancy. Just a few more days and we'll step out of our boat and into a wholly fresh and even frightening lake storm - parenting these tiny twins and their big sister. But the best news? Our Jesus is already there, walking those waters and gently calling us to join Him - right there in the midst of the toss and spray. And as intimidating as it may look, nowhere could be safer than where He calls us.

I'll leave you with a few pictures of me and my belly (measuring 52 weeks today) - some of the last ones before we meet these precious babies face-to-face.

sweet dreams

I am so grateful for all of the texts, emails and phone calls I've received over the past few weeks, asking how our appointment with the sleep doctor went. It was so wonderful to be reminded that we have a lot of people praying for us and cheering us on. This sleep thing is a little problem, but it's good to know that if we ever have a big one, you guys and gals have our backs. Sorry it has taken me so long to write this update. Part of it was just the busyness of life, but I was also sort of nervous about reporting any good news about her sleep for fear I would jinx it. I don’t really believe in that sort of thing, but I still didn’t want to take any chances.

In case you're new, you can read about Harriet's sleep in this post. If you don't have time for that, the quick version is that our girl doesn't sleep. Well, didn't sleep, but I'm getting to that. Her sleep patterns were so bad that we ended up taking her to a sleep doctor at a children's hospital on February 1st. The whole experience was wonderful from check-in to discharge. Everything went seamlessly. Wait times were short. Everyone was kind. They moved us through their system quickly without ever making us feel like a number. We were already fans of the place, but when Dr. G entered the room, we were smitten. He has the ideal temperament for pediatric sleep doctor. He is gentle, kind, affirming, patient, understanding, and most importantly, knowledgeable. He listened to our whole story and got to know us before diagnosing her...well, diagnosing us...

with being wrapped around her little finger. 

He didn't really say that. But he did say that her frequent wakings and difficulty falling asleep is learned behavior. He also mentioned that kids with this issue are always very cute and very persistent. 

Check and check.

Once we had the diagnosis, we were ready for the treatment plan...He wanted us to let Harriet cry it out. 

I have been against the cry it out method from the beginning. Like, adamantly against it. I read stuff by Dr. Sears, Elizabeth Pantley and the La Leche League ladies, all of whom only cemented my anti-CIO status even further. I have really focused on parenting Harriet in a way that fosters attachment - nursing on demand, wearing her in a sling, responding to her cries in a timely manner, budgeting in way that allows me to be home with her most of the time. We even tried cosleeping for a while, but that didn’t seem to be the best arrangement for our family. We have been passionate about showing Harriet that she can trust us to meet her needs until she is able to meet them for herself. We have never viewed her as manipulative or demanding. I was so against letting her cry it out that I even got into mini debates with people over this (including Andrew's grandma who took care of 80+ foster babies...oops). 

But then I started noticing that our friends who let their babies cry it out seemed really attached. The parents seemed tuned into their babies' needs, and the babies appeared to get that. I was shocked. I guess that all of my research convinced me that if you sleep train your child, they won't attach to you very well. I was wrong.

A blogging friend of mine named Josey shared this website with me: 

http://www.troublesometots.com

As much as I hate the name of the website, I LOVE the content. It has changed my mind (and my life too). Alexis, who runs the site, insists that letting your child cry it out isn't the antithesis of attachment parenting. She even said something like - if you're exhausted all the time, what is there for your kid to attach to anyways? Another really good point she made was this - crying it out can take just a few nights. You have all of the days and nights before and after those CIO nights to work on attachment. These two points converted me. 

I found the Troublesome Tots website before meeting Dr. G, so I was pretty prepared to let her cry it out if that’s what he suggested. He also gave us some other recommendations to make the CIO process more successful. He suggested we mildly sleep deprive Harriet leading up to the first cry it out night. He recommended a solid, predicable bedtime routine (which we had been doing already). The Troublesome Tots website also offered helpful tips like telling your child, “You’re going to sleep in your crib tonight, and we’re not going to come back into your room til morning. We’ll be right downstairs. We love you very much.” She says that even very young children can pick up on enough of that message for it to really help with any confusion the child has about the new arrangement.

So the first night, we followed the plan exactly as Dr. G and Alexis suggested. Harriet cried (screamed) for twelve minutes. And then she went to sleep. Honestly! She did! After only twelve minutes. Andrew and I could hardly contain our excitement! We joked about wishing we had bottles of champagne to spray around the living room like baseball players do after winning the World Series! We laughed as we pictured Andrew dumping a cooler of gatorade over my head like players do to the coaches when they win the Super Bowl. That’s how victorious we felt!

The second night, she cried off and on for twenty minutes. The third night, it was about ten. The few nights after that, she cried for about five seconds before settling herself and falling asleep. Since then, she hasn’t cried at all. We just snuggle her as we walk around the room, praying for her and singing to her. Then we lay her down…and she stays put…for ten hours straight…every single night.

I cannot even tell you how much this has changed our lives. We feel better physically, emotionally and mentally. You probably won't be shocked to hear that rested people are better at marriage than crazy, sleep-deprived people. And we’re definitely better parents too.

Things aren’t perfect. That’s for sure. Ten hours isn’t a long enough night for a baby of her age, especially since her naps are still pretty bad. She only sleeps about 30-40 minutes at a time and it often takes 30-60 minutes to get her down. I talked to Dr. G’s nurse about this, and she recommended the CIO method for naps as well. We tried this several times. Harriet poops. She pukes. She screams her head off for over an hour…and then we give up. Andrew says that she just isn’t tired enough during the day, and I think he’s right. I’m hoping Alexis from Troublesome Tots will write a post about naps sometime soon because we’re stumped. But with Harriet sleeping through the night, the nap issue is more than manageable.

It’s interesting…the lessons I'm learning as a mom, the things I thought would be one way, but are just the opposite. It’s humbling and kind of transforming. It has helped me broaden my view of myself as a parent so that I can be both an attachment mama and a mom who sleep trains. I feel pretty good about that.

So next time around, what will we do differently? It might surprise you to know that we aren’t planning to let our next child cry it out from the beginning. Dr. G recommended waiting til the baby is at least six months old before doing CIO. I think we’d wait even longer than that. I want the baby to at least understand some of what’s going on rather than experiencing only confusion and betrayal. Dr. G describes CIO as an ultimate last resort, and we’ll use it that way…when nothing else works.

Also, just as a sidenote, we did some research on CIO methods. There are two main methods – Ferber and Weissbluth. The big difference is that the Ferber method recommends going back into the room at increasing increments of time to soothe the child without picking her up. The Weissbluth method is a cold turkey approach. You leave and don’t come back unless you really, really, really have to. The Weissbluth method seems a bit harsher, but Dr. G and Alexis from Troublesome Tots both prefer it over the Ferber method because returning to the nursery can send mixed messages to the baby and get them all riled up again. We had tried the Ferber method several times before our appointment with Dr. G, and it never worked. But the Weissbluth method worked the first time…in only twelve minutes. So anyways, that was the best way for our family, but lots of families swear by Ferber, and I can see the upsides to that method as well.

So again, thanks so much for your thoughts and prayers. I feel like a new woman.

----

Mini update #1 in response to this post: I mustered up my courage and tried to talk to someone in the waiting room at the fertility clinic yesterday. I picked someone who looked really nice and friendly. I smiled at her. She smiled back at me. I sat close enough to her to have a conversation but kept some distance between us to avoid freaking her out.

I took a deep breath and just dove in headfirst. 

"Are you here for blood work or an ultrasound?" I asked.

She didn't speak English.

At least I tried, right?

----

Mini update #2: I'm not really responding to clomid yet, even though I've been on it for 10 days (100 mg/day). The ultrasound tech said that there weren't even any follicles worth measuring. I also have over seventy (eek!) cysts on my ovaries, meaning that my polycystic ovarian syndrome is alive and well. This is a bit frustrating because I have been cutting down on sugar, dairy and processed foods considerably. Plus, I weigh less than I did when we were trying to conceive the first time around. I’ve also been using organic produce and meat as much as I can. All of this should be helping, but it doesn't seem to be. I go in for another ultrasound and more blood work in a few days. So for now, it's just a waiting game.

lullaby and goodnight

Like most women, I didn't sleep well during pregnancy. My nose was always stuffy. I couldn't get comfortable. And I had to pee every couple hours. This pregnancy pillow helped me a lot. I don't think it helped Andrew very much, but he was okay with it.

Fast forward to the end of my pregnancy...contractions started in the middle of the night, stealing precious hours of sleep. Harriet was born at 4:19 in the morning, so I obviously didn't sleep that night either. We had originally planned to keep Harriet with us continually during our time at the hospital, but we were exhausted and the nurses kindly took her for a couple hours here and there so we could rest. And so it began...

No one expects to get much sleep during the first few months of their child's life, and neither did we. Harriet slept in a cosleeper next to our bed which I loved because I heard her cries immediately and was able to nurse her in bed. It also allowed me to check on her several times an hour (you think I'm joking) to make sure she was breathing. Pregnancy had been scary but now that my child was here and I had fallen in love with her, I was terrified of losing her. Several times during those first six months, I walked around our house, praying a shield of protection against SIDS over this space. Between the anxiety, the frequent nursings, and those squeaky little grunts newborns make, we didn't sleep much. Again, that's pretty normal. But there were times in those first couple months when she'd go sixteen hours without sleeping at all. That's not so normal for a newborn.

I started wondering if we had a challenging sleeper on our hands when she was about four months old. It just seemed to take forever to get her down. And she woke so often. She would sleep if she was nursing or being held, but if she was set down somewhere, she had trouble. There were plenty of times when I would be nursing her and stand up, walk over to her cosleeper and lay her down without unlatching her. I would balance precariously with one knee on the bed and my elbows on the desk, allowing her to continue to nurse until I very slowly unlatched her and eased myself into bed. During one of these scenarios, she started to cry when I unlatched her, so I put my face right down by hers and shhhhhed to try to get her to fall back asleep. She latched onto my bottom lip. I was so desperate for sleep that I just froze, afraid that she'd wake if I pulled away. It hurt like crazy! She gave me a fat lip...and woke up an hour later.

We moved her into her own room when she was six months old. It's a lovely nursery, my favorite room in the house. I would love to sleep in there.

Andrew was a big proponent of moving her to her own room, but the night that we actually made the switch, I gingerly laid her in the crib and then brought him upstairs to see how tiny and precious she looked. "Take her out of there!" he said, "She's way too little! It's so sad and tomorrow is your birthday. Do it a different day!" But we stayed strong and left her room, leaving Murphy behind to watch over her. He stayed in the nursery with her at night for a couple months, her guardian brother dog. 

People often asked us if she was sleeping through the night yet. "She's working on it," we would say. We just assumed she'd eventually figure it out. But month after month went by with very little progress. Now she's thirteen months old and she still sleeps like a newborn.

We have tried white noise. We've tried white noise plus one fan. White noise plus two fans. No white noise. Just the fans. Complete darkness. A nightlight. We've tried her door open and closed. We've tried having her sleep in our bed. We've leaned a vibrating baby seat up against the crib. We've put a vibrating chair massager under her crib mattress. We've slept on her floor. We've patted her back, sang to her, bounced her, walked her, brought her into our bed. We've tried tylenol, teething rings and two kinds of teething ointment. We've turned the thermostat up and and we've turned it down. We've dressed her in different types of clothing. We've put a sippy cup, a blanket, and a stuffed animal in her crib. We've let grandparents try. We've changed up her diet. We've changed up my diet. We weaned her completely. We watch for her tired signs and try to put her down at the perfect moment. We've taken her to two pediatricians and a chiropractor. We've gotten two different prescriptions for acid reflux. We wear her out with playing and fresh air. We've kept multiple sleep logs and journals. And we let her cry it out.

Crying it out is a controversial topic. I won't go into that here, but I will say that our research (and our hearts) told us that it wasn't the right choice for our family. But when everything else had failed us and Andrew was working a long stretch of nights, I felt I had no choice. So for two or three weeks, I let her cry it out. I would go in at increasing intervals and check on her, lay her back down, pat her back a bit, and remind her that she was okay. But she would not be soothed, let alone soothe herself. During that period of time, only once did she actually cry herself to sleep.  I was sort of shocked when she stopped crying, so I went in to check on her. She was asleep standing up with her arms and head resting on the crib rail. She had vomited and pooped. This wasn't the first time she had puked or filled her diaper while crying it out, but it was the last. This technique works for lots of families, but it didn't work for us. We were done.

I posted on Facebook about Harriet's sleep a couple weeks ago, asking for prayer. That night, she slept eleven hours straight. The next night was great as well. Since then, we've had good nights here and there (waking only once or twice) with plenty of ugly nights in between (waking three to six times).

Harriet's naps have always been a struggle too. She usually gets two half-hour naps. Some days she only gets one. We always try for two naps, but they often fail completely. We used to drive her around during her naps sometimes but there were plenty of times when I'd drive for forty-five minutes before she'd doze off, and then I'd pull into a parking lot and she'd wake immediately. It's not uncommon for us to try to get her down for a nap for an hour, only to have her sleep less than ten minutes.

As you can probably tell, this has been quite a struggle for us. I have resisted blogging about it until now for two reasons. First, focusing on it makes me feel so discouraged. Second, I feel really sensitive about this topic. In some ways, I feel like a complete failure in this area. I feel like getting a baby to sleep should be a simple thing, but I can't do it. No matter how hard I try, I lose this battle. Everyone has ideas about what we're doing wrong. The vast majority of these ideas are shared lovingly and with compassion. Please keep them coming. I'm not asking that you stop trying to help us. But it's still tough to be so stumped. I feel like people (some people, not everyone) must blame me for Harriet's sleep issues. I hear the voices...

"If they had only..."
"They never should have..."
"If it were me..."

It's hard not to internalize it. It's hard to feel good about myself as a mom when my daughter is so exhausted that clipping her fingernails upsets her to the point of gagging. It's embarrassing to take Harriet to someone's house and have to leave prematurely so that we can drive her around during her nap.

I cannot imagine a life where you don't dread nighttime, where you put your baby to bed and then snuggle up on the couch with your husband to watch Downton Abbey and have a bowl of ice cream. When Harriet goes to bed, we don't do anything. We don't even flush the toilets for fear of waking her. We share about our days in whispered tones and then we go to bed...at 8:00 or 9:00 because we will be up again in just a few hours.

Like I've mentioned before, my anxiety has taken this issue and run with it. I often lie awake at night, just waiting for her to wake up. My heart beats so fast and with such force that falling asleep is totally out of the question. This lack of sleep has caused my hair to fall out, my skin to break out and my weight to yoyo. It has affected my ability to process information quickly, to make decisions and to think rationally. It has caused my emotions to run amuck. It has tricked Andrew and I into thinking that we are on opposing teams. It has caused me to question whether prayer really works.

Things could be worse. They could be much, much, much worse. This is a thorn in our side. It could be a dagger, but it's not. It's just a thorn. But we feel the thorn's prick all day long and it affects everything we do. I am not complaining. It sounds like I'm complaining, but I'm not. Last night, after Andrew had fought the good fight for fifty minutes, I took over. As I rhythmically patted her back and sang to her, I smiled and I felt at peace. God has given me this girl. I cannot imagine a better life than the one I have. And there are moments when wisdom overcomes exhaustion and I realize that Harriet's lack of sleep means I get more moments with her than a lot of parents get with their kids. It doesn't matter so much that those moments are at 4:00 in the morning. So I keep patting her back, shhing her gently, and singing...

I cast all my cares upon You. 
I lay all of my burdens down at Your feet. 
And any time...I don't know...what to do...
I cast all my cares upon You. 

I really, really don't know what to do. Some days are really good. And other days, I feel like I'm unraveling. Harriet had an MRI last Monday. It was originally ordered because her head was growing too big too fast for the doctor's liking, but the sleep clinic said that they would also be very interested in the results. The imaging showed everything to be normal. We are so grateful for good results. We have a consult with a sleep specialist on February 1st. I will keep you updated. We have a great team already. Harriet's grandparents have been wonderful about coming over some mornings so that Andrew and I can sleep in. My mother-in-law answered my tearful phone call a couple weeks ago at 6:00 in the morning and came straight over. We are so glad that we'll now be adding doctors to our team.

Thanks to all of you who have joined our team by praying for us. We are so very grateful. I am no longer able to pray that Harriet will sleep, that she will have a good night, that this problem will be solved. I just can't bring myself to say those words. I am instead praying that God will allow us to retain our strength and uphold our joy no matter how long this struggle lasts.