For the first 32 years of my life I had a stick shoved so far up my ass that I regularly choked on it.
Therefore, when I became pregnant, everyone fully expected that I was going to be an overbearing, uptight, uber-protective helicopter mom.
There were bets. Polls. Whispers. Hand-wringing.
My friends and family were fairly certain that the moment Conley was born that she was going to be inserted in a thick plastic bubble where she’d remain until she was at least 45.
It seemed perfectly reasonable to me.
Fortunately, for Conley, for Tony, for my friends and family, I actually had a child and, in many ways, relaxed.
I also started sleeping. For most of my life, I was not a good sleeper. Fretful. I could fall asleep in the middle of a Motley Crue concert, but I’d be up in the middle of the night worried that Tommy Lee had spotted me sleeping during his whirling, swirling drum solo.
I always volunteered to work the earliest shifts available. I did not believe in the snooze button. At alarm’s first peep, I popped out of bed, started main lining coffee and buzzed around like a humming bird on Red Bull.
However, after Conley was born, I started sleeping. Deep, undisturbed, secure sleep.
Yet, I am still a precious sleeper. I like to lie in bed, my head on Tony’s chest, while we watch TV or read. I like to cuddle for those first moments that you are in that blissful stage between being awake and being asleep, but then after that I do not want to be touched.
If I had my druthers I would sleep in a giant, custom made bed in a soundproof, light less room that is kept at a constant 68 degrees. I would have 1000 count Egyptian cotton sheets that smelled like the outdoors with a splash of bleach and thunderstorms would play softly throughout the night.
Oh, and I would sleep – alone. Completely alone. After the spooning stage of our evening, I would want Tony to go to his own room. I’ve suggested this a time or two, but I guess he didn’t hear me over his laughter.
Although I slept with my hand on her chest for the first three months of her life to make sure that she was breathing throughout the life, I put Conley in her bed at 12 weeks old – which was the recommended age at that time. For weeks I slept curled up in the floor outside her room unable to sleep from the sounds of her cries and my heart breaking, but I persevered and after a couple of months we had a six month old who slept through the night in her own crip.
And, damn was I smug about it.
I thought that I had done it. I had shown my child the way and she had followed it.
[I can hear the guffawing from here.]My superior parenting lasted for a couple of years.
But, then it started. Conley began asking if she could sleep with us – every night. We always told her no. Every night, we tucked her in her fluffy comfortable bed covered in stuffed animals she loved deep in her soul, read 32-48 stories (and, she knew if you skipped a page) and sang several off-key versions of “You Are My Sunshine”. However, inevitably she would pop up in the middle of the night, put her face about three millimeters from mine and whisper in a voice reminiscent of Marge Simpson’s sisters, Mom, my (insert body part here) hurts. Sleeping with you makes it feel better.
Oh, the lies. During the day we have a healthy, running, jumping three year old. In the middle of the night we become parents to a 90 year old with osteoporosis, bad teeth and constant ear aches.
Many moons later and she still wants to sleep with us – every night. We share shoes now and by the time she is 12, she will be taller than me. We don’t let her often because as we tell her; even a king size bed is not made for three grown ass people. But, on the nights that we do I lie awake thinking that I need to get my life together because if hell is worse than sleeping under 100lbs of radiating, twitching heat than I simply can’t go.
However, in the mornings, after her dad goes to work, and she comes down and slides into bed with me and snuggles up to me, I know that the smell of her head will always be one of my favorite things.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
