They all claimed to be the “right” and “only” method that any sane parent should follow.

Of course, when my baby arrived in the world I realised that no leaflet had the answer to every question – and it was very likely the leaflet in the GP surgery wouldn’t match the leaflet at the baby massage class or the leaflet at the breastfeeding support group or the leaflet at the baby sensory session.

They all disagreed, because they were all written by people with a different background and approach to the role of being a parent.

It was about the time of this realisation that I chucked all the leaflets in the bin and followed my wise mother’s advice, to “follow my instincts”. Because, really, as a parent those instincts are all you have. If going against them makes you upset or feel a strange knot in your stomach, then the approach you’ve taken isn’t working, so take another one.

I’ve battled against any attempts to “label” my methods when it comes to bringing up my daughter. I even shy away from the word “parenting” because, to me, it makes it seem like being a mother to my child is some sort of activity that I’m following, rather than just living life.

This time last year I wrote an article for a magazine about Baby-led Weaning, the route we took with our daughter. For my bio, I was asked to describe my “parenting approach”. I replied that I didn’t have an approach – or not one that could be easily labelled anyway. If anything, it was the “make it up as you go along” approach. That is still true today.

When my baby was but a mere slip of a thing, we packed her off to her own room, to sleep in the snore-free peace of her cot. Her long limbs meant she woke herself up kicking the sides of her moses basket, and her father’s blocked nose meant she was often woken mid milky slumber. This went against the “rules” in the leaflet, that you should sleep with your baby in your room until they were six months old.

I fretted a bit, sleeping with both doors to the rooms wide open and a baby monitor taped to the side of my head. Eventually the buzzing of the monitor and my softly sleeping baby told me to relax, and I accepted that moving her a bit further away, into a bigger bed, was the right decision – for us.

I sometimes felt a pang of guilt when other mums told me of their night-time cuddles with their babies in their own beds, often complaining with sleep deprived eyes that their baby “won’t sleep on his own”. I liked the idea of cuddling next to my baby, in my bed, falling asleep next to each other. But the reality – that my baby was a lanky little thing that kicked and squirmed and didn’t appreciate cuddles while drifting off to the land of nod – meant this thing called “co-sleeping” was never on the cards.

As Frog grew older, there were times when she would allow me to lie next to her, needing me close to her to help fall asleep. These times were rare and never ended with her in our bed at night. Often they’d see me lying on the floor of the cot next to her, holding her hand. Or lying next to her on my bed in the afternoon, trying to encourage her to give in to the exhaustion she fought.

And now, here we are.

Frog still likes her space. At 2 years and 2 months, she sleeps in a “big girl’s bed” and will often go from 13 to 14 to 15 hours a night. But there have been times recently – new times – where we’ve dabbled in a bit of co-sleeping action.

On holiday, for example. As fine as our glamping tent was, as sturdy and cosy and luxurious as the canvas walls were, they didn’t hide the noise of the seagulls at 4am. Or the wind flapping against the ropes outside.

So, for that week, my toddler fell asleep in her own bed and woke at around 3am, calling for me. Instead of battling with her to keep her in her own bed, scared of “making a rod for my own back” etc etc, I plonked her down beside me and drifted off with her curled against me like a cuddly little cat.

(Her dad, obviously, found himself relegated to the other bed. Being 6ft 5″ doesn’t suit co-sleeping, apparently.)

Fast-forward a few weeks later, to the last few days, and we’ve found ourselves in a similar situation.

Frog has woken up itchy and grumpy with chicken pox in the middle of the night, calling, “MUUUUUUMMY!” On these rare occasions, a flask of milk and a cuddle is usually enough to settle her and see her spend the rest of the night in her own bed. But the other night was different. The other night she got out of her bed and pushed open her door, before toddling into our bedroom and getting into bed with us at 4am.

It was rather nice actually.

And the following night when she woke up, I didn’t even try and get her to sleep in her own bed. I simply plonked her into bed next to me and we both drifted off to a contented sleep until proper morning.

But now I’m back to work. And proper morning for me IS 4am. So the co-sleeping has to be put on hold. As much as I like the odd nightly cuddle and the way my two year old reaches for my hand in the night, the thought of her getting up at 4am to face a day of grumpiness is not an option.

Luckily, she’s slept through the last couple of nights. It seems the chicken pox has done its worse and is leaving her be, for now at least.

So yet again, I find myself with a label I can’t stick to. I’m a fake co-sleeper. A fairweather co-sleeper.

But you know what? That suits me just fine.

The post The accidental co-sleeper appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Adele’s was one of the first blogs I found when I started blogging just over a year ago. Back then she was writing about pregnancy – reading her words took me right back to the days 19 months ago when I was huge and fed up.

She writes with humour, thought and huge sprinklings of common sense. And she resides in my homeland of Bristol, so she’s got to be worth a read.

Without further ado, I bring to you, the Queen of the Circus herself….

***

When I was fifteen, I voluntarily (!) got up at 5am to study Chemistry and Biology. I was getting ready to write my CXC’s (the Caribbean version of GCSE’s). Looking back I would’ve managed anyway. Looking forward, I’d put my fingertips in the toaster to get those unslept hours to return.

These mornings a little hand grabs my boob at 5.30 (someone remind me I need to cut those fingernails) and shoves it violently in her mouth. A few minutes later, the other one falls victim. Just when I start nodding off again, the hand starts jabbing fingers up my nose, pulling open my lips and yanking my hair.

I’ve tried to get clever by keeping some toys next to my pillow. So I hurl them at her with my eyes closed to see if I can fool her into thinking I’m still asleep. This probably buys me two minutes. Then I’m whacked over the head by a Lamaze thing-ma-jig.

Meanwhile, my eight-month-old is babbling a mile a minute. The message is clear: “Wake UP, Mummy.”

I really believe the more sleep you get, the more you need. Somehow, two hours’ sleep shook it at two months into this motherhood gig. Now, I reach sleepily for my dressing gown and slippers and tell the giggling imp in my bed: “Lord have mercy, child – can’t you see it’s dark out there?”

At this, she smiles so fully, I almost forget that I’m a grumpy cow who doesn’t like getting up in the morning at the best of times and who thinks winter is a sure symptom of the fall of man.

We go downstairs to stick the kettle on and get our breakfast going. She sits with her toys but, mainly, she’s looking up at me and chatting away, laughing when I respond.

She’s her own person, I marvel, independent of the rhythms of my own sleep. What is she thinking about when she wakes up? What has she dreamt? What is she saying to me?

More often than not, I’ve gone to bed feeling worn out and rather sorry for myself. I’m stuck with her until bedtime day after day. I’m getting lost inside this vortex of poo, naps and peekaboo. Pretty soon I’ll not know where to find a self to hold in any kind of esteem.

I’ve recently become afraid that I’m getting boring, that motherhood is not enough and, by extension, that I am – simply – not enough. It culminates in a nightly headache as I pull my daughter into bed with me. I lie in the dark and wonder if I’m coping.

As the caffeine kicks in, the sun rises and Talitha lifts her arms to be carried, my thoughts elevate. I’ve got a day ahead with someone who sees me. Hours will roll with the person who desperately wants to be with me.

I know, I know, my identity can’t be planted in her. One day she’ll stop laughing at my jokes, preferring to be with her friends.

But for now, I only have to think about this moment. These dim hours are teaching me to be the person I am going to be – with the person who doesn’t give a fart about what I got on my CXC’s.

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