At 40-something, I thought I’d mastered the art of looking put-together. Then my three-year-old decided sleep was optional, and now I’m Googling “Is wearing two different shoes a cry for help?”
Okay, let’s dive into the six stages of sleep training (or, in my case, re-training a toddler). Few things in life are more humbling in your forties than turning to Google in desperation when your three-year-old refuses to sleep. Because nothing says “advanced maternal” like searching Reddit at 3 a.m. for “toddler sleep tips” with one eye open and a heating pad on your back.
Stage 1: This Can’t Be Happening (Denial Phase)
This cannot be happening. I mean, you were sleeping soundly through the night in your crib. The transition to your ‘big kid bed’ went relatively smoothly. This cannot be happening. Is this retribution because I was kind of smug when a mom on the playground was complaining that her 14-month-old still woke up crying several times a night?
I waited until my late 30s to have a baby so I could be mature and well-rested. Joke’s on me.
Wailing from down the hall. Check the clock on the phone. 1:21 a.m.
Maybe I’m dreaming or night-maring.
Spouse: “Do you want me to go check on him?”
Nope. Definitely not dreaming if we both hear it.
Me: “No. I’ll go.”
This cannot be happening.
Stage 2: Why Is This Always My Job? (The Anger Stage)
Of course I’m the alpha.
When we sleep-trained in the crib, I was the strong one. Placing my body at the nursery door so the ‘cry it out’ method would work in two days.
Why do I always have to be the strong one? Do you think our child’s cries don’t affect me? I’m not immune. I’m doing this for the kid.
As I’ve said a dozen times (and I’m definitely not alone in this thinking), the earlier we master sleep training, the better sleep the kid will have as he grows.
→ Relapse to Stage One: Denial
Stage 3: Negotiating with Tiny Terrorists (Bargaining)
If you stay in your big boy bed, in your big boy room (“but, what if I have to go potty?” a little voice squeaks)—unless you have to go potty…
“What if I get scared?” the voice squeaks again. Scared of what? “The window. The closet. The ceiling. The air.”
There’s no reason to be scared, but if you do feel scared, what if mom lets you pick 3 stuffies to snuggle with you in your big boy bed to help you feel safe?
“What if it’s too dark?”
We have two awesome night lights for you to choose from, a friendly frog and a wise owl … oh, the frog is ‘too green’ and you don’t like the nightlight with the owl anymore? (Deftly opens Amazon app on the floor of the nursery-turned-big-kid-room.) What kind of light would you like?
“A cat.”
When we were kids, our parents said ‘go to bed’ and shut the door. Now I’m debating nightlight color temperatures and sneaking onto Amazon at 2 a.m.
(Same day delivery? Check.) Okay, the cat light will be here very soon. Now, can you use your big kid power and please, please stay in your room all night?
“But what if …” Unless you have to go potty. “Or, unless, I need to come into your room.” Sigh. Why would you have to come into my room, sweetie?
“To keep you safe from the bad guys, Mom.”
Awwwwwwww. And that warm fuzzy feeling will last until approximately 3 a.m. when the tiny tot and all three feet of his dangling limbs climbs into your bed.
Elbow to the face.
Knee to the groin.
Foot to the gut.
And somehow a Lego ends up under your rib cage.
It’s now 4 a.m., and you’re wide awake with 5 items in your Amazon cart, listening to the sound of your child’s snoring and scrolling through an app trying to pick a podcast that will help you fall back to sleep.
Stage 4: When Eye Cream Can’t Hide the Truth (Depression)
When diplomacy fails and tiny fists prevail, you spiral into the dark abyss of…
“Are you under the weather?” a co-worker asks, concerned.
“Just tired,” I mutter. “Thanks for checking, though.”
Turns out when you’re closer to 45 than 25, sleep loss isn’t quirky and endearing—it’s catastrophic to your spine and your sanity.
Of course, eye cream won’t help the fact that I’m wearing two different socks (!) and—look dammit—I may have put my blouse on inside out. Excusing myself to the restroom, I almost start crying when I see a flyer advertising the new “Tired Moms Club” at work.
Phew. My shirt is on the right way.
Might as well pee while I’m here. Sitting down on the toilet, the tears really do start. And that’s when I notice my underwear is on inside out.
Stage 5: Fine, You Win (Acceptance)
You win. You’re the alpha. Want to come in my bed at 3 a.m.? Here, have my side. Actually, come to think of it, this isn’t a bad idea. I did spring for that highly rated, environmentally friendly twin mattress.
Here’s an idea: Trading-Places-3-A.M.-Why-Won’t-This-Kid-Sleep-Edition.
Mom takes the kid’s bed in a master stroke of genius. Snuggled up with Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends. This might be the best sleep I’ve had in weeks…
pitter patter
“Mommy, what are you doing?” the voice squeaks. “Can I sleep with you?”
“Yes, baby. Come on in.”
Ten minutes later, the kiddo fast asleep, he gently pushes you onto the edge and out onto the floor, where you, at peace with this stage of parenting, do yoga stretches in the low light of the cat/frog/owl night light.
Stage 6: Maybe This Is Actually… Meaningful? (Finding Purpose)
Is it possible that all this sleep-deprivation could be… actually good for me?
Maybe being this tired means I’m fully present. Maybe my kid climbing into bed at 3 a.m. is a warped form of affection. Maybe this is just what midlife parenting looks like: high-thread-count sheets, low sleep, and existential clarity at dawn.
Or maybe it’s my karmic debt for saying I “function fine on six hours” back in 2010.