The Stork Of Course

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Sleep Training: The Storm Before the Calm

After six months of crappy, no good, very bad sleep, my wife and I have begun sleep training Sloane (aka: crying it out; aka: the Ferber graduated extinction method; aka: this shit better work).

Day One

I had been researching cry it out, but begun the process hastily yesterday morning when nap number one at 9AM was going downhill fast. I thought, "Why not? What am I waiting for? It's Wednesday, it should take three days, Allison is working until 8PM all week, coming home after bedtime so she won't have to endure the decidedly greater pain of motherly empathy. I should just do this. We will be getting good rest by the weekend." I had no idea what I was jumping into. As of right now, I have endured about thirty hours and six sleep routines of infant crying that I am positive will leave me with PTSD. Seriously. She's playing on the floor smiling right now and I can still hear the screams in my head. 

Before I get to how this has gone down some context is in order. Sloane is six months and one week old. Bedtime takes 60-90 min every night. She has slept a six hour block maybe twice in her life with a half-dozen five hour blocks, and still infrequent, but more numerous four hour blocks. Three hours at a time at night is the norm, often with hourly pacifier replacements when she realizes, unconsciously, that the soothing sucking rhythm of the binky has stopped. Being new parents, we have done nothing until now to encourage her to behave otherwise. Bedtimes were simple in the beginning. She would sleep anywhere anytime she was tired. She slept on the floor of our living room during March Madness with a room full of Louisville Cardinal fans cheering, cussing, and celebrating their team to a National Championship. However, as she has grown, she has begun, as all animals do, using what she has to work with to get what feels good. In this case, wailing to get held, pacified, entertained, fed, or soothed during times that she should be sleeping. Lest you think me insensitive for implying these are not valid infant needs, we do provide this nurturing during waking hours, but as our pediatrician and all research we've come across suggests, she should be sleeping for at least six hours uninterrupted at this age. She isn't because we respond to every cry with a warm embrace, bouncing, shushing, and other pleasant services no one in their right mind would turn down if offered during a fitful night's rest. 

Naps are no better. Sloane's eyes get heavy and she goes into warrior mode (appropriately so since her name literally means warrior). She can fight it for an hour at least while rubbing her eyes, yawning, and flailing on the floor whining between short periods of play. During the day I've taken to strapping her to my chest in her Ergo carrier until she falls asleep on me and I can transfer her to her crib (many times unsuccessfully). 

So, that's what we've been dealing with and our doc told us Tuesday that it's time to break her of these habits for the sake of family sanity. I agreed whole-heartedly. Mom was not as enthusiastic given the cold-natured process required to get us to a full night's sleep. Fortunately for us, my testosterone-induced, sociopathic lack of human empathy (according to those against crying it out) is determined to bring us through the storm to calmer skies. Which brings us back to day one. 

The first nap of the day took about thirty minutes of wailing with me checking-in every five minutes. This was prior to my understanding of the definition of "Graduated Extinction," meaning I should have checked at five minutes, then seven, then nine, etc. until she put herself to sleep. Fortunately, nap one usually requires the least amount of soothing in general. In all honesty, it often takes thirty minutes anyway (yes, thirty minutes is the least amount of soothing), except I'm usually engaged in the aforementioned bouncing, shushing, pacifying, etc that exhausts me more than her. All in all, nap one wasn't too bad compared with the norm. 

Nap two was a little rougher at forty-five minutes. I altered my process after an online refresher course during nap one on proper technique, so I actually practiced the "graduated" part of the Graduated Extinction method. The crying came in waves working up to hysteria, then back to passively lying on her back with her teddy bear listening to lullaby versions of "Gin and Juice," "Don't Stop Believin'," and the like, before returning to hysteria. At this point I was seriously reconsidering my choice, especially when our overly concerned felines began crying at me as well as if to say, "Why are you being such a dick? Help that kid for crapsake!" But I endured and she slept sans pacifier for over an hour. 

Nap three sucked. Nap three sucked because nap three never happened. One hour and fifteen minutes of crying with "graduated" check-ins while trying to prepare dinner over a hot stove in our un-air conditioned apartment, which was already at eighty-five degrees (baby's room is cooler, save your judgment) brought me to the brink. Baby, who always sleeps at this time of day when she has her pacifier and I carry her around for half-an-hour in the Ergo, was still wide-eyed without these sleeping aides. We started nap three at four-thirty, three hours before her bedtime routine starts at seven-thirty. At five-forty-five, going to sleep would have thrown us all off for getting to sleep at bedtime. So, we returned to the living room floor to play, knowing bedtime would have to start a little early. 

Bedtime

I thought for sure after fighting sleep for over an hour and skipping a nap that Sloane would knock off without issue after a bath and feeding. I would have been surprised if we got as far as me serenading with my guitar, which is part of our normal 60-90 minute bedtime process. And I was right...kind of. I bathed her, changed her into nightwear, gave her a full bottle, and she fell asleep right there on the Boppie with no fussing. I transferred her to her crib without waking her and off she drifted into dreamland...for about thirty minutes. At seven-thirty, as I was getting some dishes done and preparing to crack a beer to decompress from a day of torturing an infant (and myself), when Sloane realized, as she often does, that she was not sucking on a pacifier. 

"Screw it," I said. "I can't go through this again so soon. I'm giving her the binky if it helps her sleep. BUT I will not replace it if she drops it." I compromised with myself and placed the binky in her mouth. It worked briefly until she predictably dropped it and the crying began again. 

At this point I texted Allison, who was getting off work and crying just at the thought of her daughter's struggles. I told her she may want to take a detour on her way home. I had eaten some dinner by now and was feeling revived (though I, perhaps fortunately, never made it to the beer). Inning four. Put me in coach. I'm ready. 

This cycle lasted fifty minutes. I retired to the basement where it was cooler with the video monitor and dessert in hand. I returned to the nursery at five minutes, then seven, then nine, then eleven, then thirteen. She was asleep. Eight-twenty. I told Allison she could return and finally opened that beer. 

Ninety-minutes later she awoke for her next feeding, which was fine and expected. Allison breastfed and she immediately returned to slumber--to my amazement, without her binky. Progress. 

She awoke again at twelve-thirty for another three-hour feeding and again we obliged. This would be the last of the night though, we agreed. After midnight, it's self-soothing til dawn. A six hour block, we agreed. And Allison retired to the basement to sleep on the futon, where she could be somewhat removed from the cries, and perhaps more importantly, removed from me as I dug deep for the strength to endure whatever the next six hours would bring. 

Four hours and fifteen minutes with no binky, no crying, no nothing. Those with restless infants know, this amount of uninterrupted sleep is like getting a deep-tissue message while Iron and Wine personally lull you to a state of nirvana in a holistic spa. However, for those keeping score at home, there was still an hour and forty-five minutes left until our agreed-upon six-hour block was complete. Baby was not in on this agreement, and so, we started again. 

Inning five lasted forty-five minutes. I groggily rubbed Sloane's back and spoke to her gently at graduated increments, letting her know I was nearby and that she could do this on her own. Mom stayed strong in the basement, holding up to her commitment not to let her motherly instincts bring her upstairs and undo my day's doing. I say it lasted forty-five minutes, but after thirty-five, she began to fade, putting the ear of her teddy bear in her mouth for relief. She was adapting. 

I lied awake for an hour after that, trying to soothe myself back to sleep. I never felt so close to my cat, who seemed to know that lying across my back and purring, allowing her repetitive vibrations to radiate through my rib cage, was exactly what I needed at that moment.  

Sloane slept nearly two more hours and Allison got up to feed her at six-forty-five, allowing me to get some much needed shut-eye. But, as mornings go, first nap starts an hour after wake up. At 8AM, day two began. 

And so far, day two has been great. First nap, ten minutes, one check-in, no pacifier. Sloane put herself to sleep and slept for a full hour. Second nap, fifteen minutes, two check-ins. Improvement, but no less stressful. Let's hope this ends soon. Day and a half left, right? Right?! 

The Witching Hour Cometh

Six o'clock and it's all smiles. Baby plays in her gym, blissfully full on mom's life-sustaining milk, grasping at the bugs with cellophane wings, the multi-textured ball, the stuffed elephant just out of reach. A nap is coming. All day she cycles--feed, play, sleep, change, repeat. It's pleasantly predictable, a healthy routine for her and dad both. By six-thirty she is calming, enough so that dad can begin dinner. He cuts the onions, minces the garlic, chops the vegetables. From across the room he can see baby's eyes getting heavy. Her energy is waning. Her once active arms drooping. The excited kicks and squirming stop. Dad can relax. "It's break time boss." He grabs a beer, turns on the news, and begins sauteing the onion and garlic.

Every evening brings hope. Maybe tonight will be it. Maybe the curse of wretched fits and inconsolable wails of infant insolence will cease. She will graduate to a more mature form of miniature mortal. The clock strikes seven and baby's eyes are fluttering, barely open now. Dad sips his beer and lets his focus fall to dinner and Robert Seigel.

Then, turning to add the quartered zucchini to the fragrant pan of sizzling roots it happens. Baby's pacifier hits the floor and with it dad's hopes of dinner time sanity. Baby's head thrashes violently. Her mouth pouts as the lack of sucking motion rouses her from her near-slumber. Dad puts his half-full beverage on the counter and stirs the vegetables hastily, knowing time is short. He wishes he had not been so naive. Why would tonight have been different? How can he make such a rookie mistake night after night? Perhaps it is the regularity of the rest of the day. From sun-up to early evening the cycle seems too concrete to vary. But it does and dinner must stop.

Dad turns off the stove as baby becomes possessed by something from the psychological netherworld--the infant equivalent of psychosis. Her eyes still watery with fatigue, she looks up helplessly at dad wishing as badly as he does that she could maintain control. But the witching hour has cometh. There's no remedy, no amount of feeding, or soothing, or shushing that will cure it. There is no solving the problem or providing for a need, there is only endurance of spirit. Dad wrestles the wriggling bewitched babe to her car seat and the car seat to the stroller. He glances sadly at the half-cooked meal strewn across the counter top and the wounded soldier standing guard. It will be eight before he gets back. Fresh air and vibration in the outdoors are all that take the edge off the frantic flailing. If nothing else the cries for control dissipate in the cool evening air that provides some relief for dad. If only he had grabbed a snack, some sustenance to aide in maintaining his mental acuity and patience. But alas, it has begun. Deep breaths, fast walking, perseverance. It will end, eventually. And tomorrow will bring new hope. The witch will leave her and dad's smiling cooing child will return. They will play and sing and bond, tomorrow. But for now...for now...he waits.

Cultural Conundrums (or Evidence-Based Parenting)

Much to my surprise, babies do come with instructions these days. In fact, there are libraries full of manuals, tips, tricks, charts, product research, double blind longitudinal randomized studies, development aids, myth debunkers, opinion pieces, parenting techniques, activity trackers, and the like. Before we were even discharged from our healthcare co-op birthing center (how very west coast of us, I know) we were given the quick and dirty on what to expect from the coming weeks. For example, babies have been breathing through a cord for quite awhile by the time they are born and though they will occasionally start panting like a dog in the deep South for no apparent reason, it doesn't mean they are having an anxiety attack; they're simply learning to use lungs. New parents have a lot of questions and concerns and unlike my parent's generation who had to call the doctor every other day for answers (or hope it worked itself out), we are now able to type a few words into a handheld device and find the answer (or an answer) immediately. For this I am grateful.

That being said, the information out in the world on pregnancy, human development, and parenting is about three parts total bullshit to one part evidence-based reality. This is most apparent when walking through the aisles of baby brain videos at your local Babies (being marketed to irresponsibly because people are gullible and don't know any better) R Us department store. According to John Medina, a molecular biologist and research consultant at the University of Washington, there isn't a single video or television show on the market that has proven effective at helping babies' brains develop. Not one. In fact, some of the more popular ones (anyone still using Baby Einstein?) have even had negative effects. Why? Because TV turns us into zombies. No kidding. When a baby is placed in front of a television, no matter how educational the show appears to be to us as adults, her brain shuts down. Synapses literally start dying and neuropathways close up shop under the impression that they will no longer be needed. It's passive. She has no way to interact with the information being spewed at her, and even in the cases where the show encourages interaction, it's rarely useful interaction that engages critical thinking, problem solving, or creativity. As cute as call and response with a big purple dinosaur may be it isn't likely to help your child, say, solve the global climate crisis you will be leaving her (or fit a square peg in a square hole for that matter). The best book I've seen on child development so far: Brain Rules for Baby by the aforementioned John Medina. For those who love the nuts and bolts science of what will and won't work for your baby's development, check it out. No woowoo nonsense, no ideological child rearing techniques, no "I've been a mom six times over and let me tell you something" opinions--just the facts ma'am. 

I'll have you know I didn't take a break from cleaning vomit off my everything just to point out that there are a lot of BS things parents do (and buy) while completely ignoring the evidence backing whether it works. Rather, I am writing to ask the question, "So what?" So by the time my kid is twenty she's a brilliant straight A student, who's emotionally stable, physically fit, socially aware, and happier than a hipster at a Buffalo Exchange. How many people fitting this description do we all know currently sitting in a cubicle making spreadsheets for a hard ass frat boy with obsessive compulsive disorder and a sociopathic drive to get rich because his dad never said, "I love you"? How does one raise a happy, healthy, intelligent woman knowing full well that the world doesn't give a fornicating flamingo about being happy, healthy, or intelligent? If we did we would have teachers making six-figure salaries, a health care system that keeps everyone in tiptop condition, and fields of windmills and solar panels all functioning on a smart grid that would put your iPad to shame. But we don't, because these are not our values. So, what's a dad to do when these are his values? Do I raise a daughter who can compete with all the shit-for-brains bullies out there running the world, or do I raise her to be someone who fights tooth and claw to solve the problems being passed on to her (even if what she has to say is contrary to what most want to hear)?

Robert Burns says, "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, gang aft agley (often go awry)." That is to say, that the fact that I plan to raise my daughter to be the kind of person I wish everyone would be, using suggestions from academics rather than folksy grandmas and grandpas who raised kids forty years ago, really has little bearing on whether it will work out in her favor down the road. And can one really be happy and healthy when unemployable and stigmatized for having values more suited to, say, Norway than the United States?

Thus begins twenty years of compromise--setting aside the evidence so my daughter isn't shunned from birthdays with TV character themes of shows I've not allowed her to watch. Setting aside the evidence so she can eat crap at other people's houses without being called "weird" for being fed healthy food at home. Setting aside evidence so she can have some cultural literacy of what people in her country do and believe instead of raising her to oppose interests that lead to stagnation, obesity, superstition, paranoia, fear, and hate. Compromising, not so the world is a better place, but so she can survive. This is my cultural conundrum. 

Eat, Poop, Love

She's here! Our sweet bundle of joy arrived last week, and lest you think this post too cheery for a first time father of an eleven day old, let me assure you it has taken the full week and a half to find the time and mental acuity to write it.

The transition that has taken place over the last week has been something like losing a limb while blissfully intoxicated. The immediate life adjustment, adaptation, and acceptance is intense, but the warm flood of Oxytocin that overcomes you when looking at your child certainly takes the edge off. Why no one has synthesized this hormone and sold it on the street is beyond me. It's like meth but instead of losing your teeth and stealing from your friends, you tear up with joy while an underdeveloped, wriggling, emotionally unstable family member vomits down your back and yells at you while pooping her pants.

Yes, the proverbial shit has hit the fan, and as I learned two days ago, if a fan is near enough to a baby's changing table, the literal shit may possibly hit the fan as well. I should be clear, I'm madly in love with this eight pound product of our spring vacation to Maui. She's gorgeous. Perfect, in fact, and my wife and I both feel incredibly lucky to have had such a smooth pregnancy and delivery. However, I want to give a little more specific advice to soon-to-be parents then, "Get your sleep now!" (though, seriously, you should. You're about to lose your mind from sleep deprivation).

As I mentioned in my previous post, you can save yourself a lot of time and effort and toss your pregnancy books in the trash right now. This is all you need to know: Partners, you're job is to stay cool and be supportive. Period. That's it. You start reacting to this process like your partner is in her right mind and you've failed already. Stay cool, be supportive. Period.

Ladies, from what I've gathered, the best you can do is eat as healthily as your pregnant body will allow, exercise until the day your baby comes peeping out of your lady-bits, and resist the urge to romanticize the delivery process. I know I'm a man and probably shouldn't be telling women how to view the birth of their child, but I was there; I saw some stuff go down. It's not the mystical, miraculous day at the spa that some women like to portend it to be. It's more like going through a twenty hour bout with food poisoning while possessed by something of Exorcist proportions and tripping on a drug some guy (hopefully your partner) slipped in your drink nine months earlier that's just taken effect. But, biology willing, you'll live to tell the tale and have a new child that--I kid you not--will make the challenge of labor slip away instantly. I've never seen my wife so peaceful and content (did I mention someone should sell this stuff?)

So, moms and partners, don't spend nine months reading about where the fetus is in her development, or the delivery process, or worrying about every horrible thing that can go wrong, or every wives tale remedy you can engage in to make your baby a superior natural specimen. You have no control over these things. The doc will tell you if something is wrong. Eat well, exercise, avoid stress, hope for the best. Boom. Dozens of pregnancy books summarized in a four point plan. My advice? Read about the twenty years after delivery--the part you can control and may not have time to read about.

Other observations from eleven days of fatherhood:

1. Babies leak from every orifice all of the time.
2. They move their mouth and headbutt you like a rugby player when they're hungry. 
3. They scrunch their legs to their chest and turn bright red when they're pooping (followed by a dazed look of satisfaction, followed by crying if dad doesn't hop to it). 
4. They squirm around and squeak like a dog toy when they need to be burped. 
5. They look through you instead of at you. 
6. They like shushing sounds, lots of motion, and Yo-Yo Ma. 
7. They WILL vomit on everything you own.
8. They will occasionally wait until you get their diaper off to complete their bowel movement or urination. 
9. Sometimes they will roll around in said urine until they have successfully coated their back up to their neck. 
10. You will bathe your urine-covered thrashing ball of fleshy extremities, and you will smile while doing it.
11. Sleeping for two hours straight feels amazing after sleeping for forty-five minutes at a time for a week.
12. You will buy Crocks for back support and you will not feel like a total dork wearing them. 
13. You will do laundry every day despite not leaving the house for a week. 
14. Your wife's boobs are now "breasts." They belong to your child. 
15. Marathon runners and triathletes have nothing on women who've given birth. 
16. Evolution has equipped us with some badassery beyond belief.
17. Friends who bring food after you have your child are awesome. 
18. It will take three days to write a 500 word blog post. 

What I Learned in 39 Weeks

One week to go. Fatherhood, here I come!

I wasn't going to do this. I told myself, "No, don't become another dad writing about his plight as a new parent and droning on about how little sleep you get and how disgusting it is to wipe feces off a wailing infant." But after spending the last nine months reading dozens of books, websites, blogs, and advice columns, I feel I should share a few things about what I've learned during pregnancy while I can still afford to be idealistic and snarky.

Lesson 1: Men Suck

It's true gentlemen, we're awful. We're detached, sex-crazed, sports-watching, junk food eating, insensitive, unhelpful, immature neanderthals. Every new mom on the planet should do herself a favor right now and accept that she's on her own in child-rearing for the next several decades. Or so every book on pregnancy and early childhood care would have you believe. To be fair, there are a lot of men out there who fit this description. I know there are. I've met plenty of them. In a country where half of all pregnancies are unplanned it's not hard to imagine the great number of men who unexpectedly found themselves floundering to figure out how to be a parent. There are, of course, methods that are 99.9% effective for preventing unwanted pregnancies, but hey, science shmience, right guys? No fancy pants doctor's going to tell us how to live our lives. Save yourselves a lot of reading soon-to-be dads, all you need to understand (at least based on a lot of parenting book authors) is that you're a horribly incompetent person and that becoming a parent for you will be a process of occasionally not playing video games like a fifteen year old and doing things your wife thinks are important for your child. Bummer, huh?

Lesson 2: Women are Winos, Children are Animals, and Parenting Blows 

All useful lessons I learned from reading about pregnancy and parenting. Also, (in case you were unaware) all new parents live in large comfortable houses and will need at least one item from every shelf at Babies-R-Us. As the man you are henceforth in charge of making and managing all the money and protecting your powerless wife and child from the big bad boogie men lurking in every shadow of our oh-so-dangerous American suburbs. Godspeed.

Additionally, it is assumed that you have not bothered to get to know your partner in any capacity prior to getting her pregnant. You should do this now before the baby comes. A thoughtful gesture might be to take a break from the eight hours of football you watch on Sundays and talk to your partner about how she's feeling. You might discuss necessary preparations that should occur before the baby comes and ask her if there's any household chores you can take on so that she can rest and bond with her growing fetus. Consider not drinking every night and passing out on the couch watching Baywatch reruns in your underwear. This will remind your partner that she can count on you to be a good role model for your future child.

Be aware dad that your life is going to change. Did you know that? Parenting is hard and you have to do yucky things like clean up poopoo and peepee when you'd rather be out hangin' with your buds. Your wife will very likely be missing her life of drinking entire boxes of wine with her friends while gossiping about the latest celebrity news, so you should offer to watch your child occasionally and give her the evening off. As your child ages you will notice that he is not always obedient and appreciative of your efforts. You should try to refrain from hitting him and yelling at him as he'll have no idea why you're acting like a hostile crazy person.  He will likely just become afraid of you and cry, the way most people do when you hit them and yell at them because you don't like their behavior. Remember he has a very tiny brain and a total lack of impulse control, unlike you who have had several decades to develop into a rational adult with communication skills. Also, he does not come pre-programmed to know how to behave in the world around him. It can be very frustrating! Grr. You'll likely have to turn off the TV and teach him things. Bleh. So hard!

Lesson 3:  Everything's Expensive, Intimacy is a Pipe Dream, and It's All Worth It

If I've learned nothing else in nine months, it's that all parents--every single one--hate their lives. They have no money, no marriage satisfaction, no time for themselves, they never wear clean clothes, and more or less cease to exist as civilized humans. I will apparently achieve none of my life goals, gain weight, and abandon my values at the first sign of trouble. During every free moment I'll drink like a fish and cuss like a sailor and all my friends without kids will think me insane and disown me (at least until they have kids of their own). It's the worst thing ever, and I'll grow bitter and conservative and treat my kids as though it is their fault I chose to take on the responsibility of having children...but it's all worth it! Or so they say.

So what does a soon-to-be parent take away from all this cynicism, besides the fact that there are a lot of stereotypical people out there making it impossible for the rest of us to get intelligent input about healthy parenting? It's a tough sell, this having kids thing, and so far there aren't many people trying to spin it for me. In fact, advice both personal and professional has sounded more like war veterans preparing me for battle than loving parents preparing me for "the best thing they've ever done with their lives." What I'm telling myself is that I do a lot of things other people don't do and maybe it won't be so bad. I've run marathons and triathlons. Those were hard. I've written a couple novels. That was pretty time consuming and frustrating at times. But no matter how I try, I have nothing to compare this to. It's the first thing I've done in more than a decade that I have no analogous life experience to draw upon. I just don't know. And I have to be okay with that. On the one hand, as Chris Rock says, "Anybody can have a kid. Even cockroaches reproduce." On the other hand my every action or inaction for the rest of my life will influence this little person's worldview. Whether she ends up President or dancing on a pole largely depends on whether I show up as a dad for the next twenty years. I'm told it will be the most challenging, expensive, unappreciated thing I do with my life.

And I did this on purpose.