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?!