By the time Sarah was nine weeks old I’d decided that having a baby wasn’t all that hard. A piece of cake, really. Either that or I had an amazingly good baby. Yeah, sure, it was boring getting up to feed her every four hours through the night, but she was so cute, and when I put her back down she just went back to sleep again. No big deal.
However, on the day Sarah was nine weeks and one day old, I found out what the big deal was.
Suddenly, she seemed to realise that she liked being held – always.
The first time it happened was after one of her early morning feeds. I put her down exactly as I had every other time. But instead of drifting off to sleep, she opened her eyes, gazed at me for a long second and then let out a bloodcurdling scream.
I grabbed her, certain that something was terribly wrong.
Silence descended.
I took off her nappy and checked that it didn’t need changing. She looked at me calmly as I established this wasn’t the problem. Slightly worried, I rocked her back to sleep again.
Sighing with relief, I put her back in her cot, and immediately her eyes opened and she let out another bloodcurdling yell.
Confused, but less panicky this time, I picked her up. Maybe, I thought, she had wind which caused her pain when she was lying down.
For a second time she was silent as soon as I picked her up.
Bringing her back out into my bedroom, I grabbed a baby book and lay down on the bed with her on my chest.
Instantly, I heard her sigh and relax into a deep sleep.
Okay, I could sort this out. Let’s see . . . Sleeping – page 162-3.
Flipping to the appropriate page I started to read.
‘There are as many sleeping habits as there are babies and unfortunately a lot of them don’t suit their parents. One thing that is vital though, is that she must be able to fall asleep by herself, not while being held or rocked. Often this doesn’t come easily and your baby will protest when left alone in her cot. The best (but not necessarily the easiest) way to deal with this is to let her cry herself to sleep.’
Quickly I slammed the book shut, causing Sarah to jump. That just wasn’t going to work. For a start, Sarah was way too little, and secondly, I could never just let her cry. There had to be another way.
Three days later I opened page 162 again, acknowledging that my sixty-centimetre-tall daughter had defeated me in our battle of wills.
The only way she would sleep was lying on my chest. The second I tried to move, either to put her beside me or back in her cot, she was instantly awake. Consequently, for the past three nights I had only slept for about fifteen minutes at a time, terrified I would roll over and suffocate her.
I was so tired I felt as though a fog had descended over my brain. When I discovered the cereal packet in the freezer, I knew something had to be done.
I tried calling Karen for advice, but for the first time she told me she couldn’t help.
‘Sorry, Soph, you’re on your own. This is one of those decisions only you can make. All I can say is that you gotta do what you gotta do.’
Just as I hung up the telephone, it rang again. I pounced on it. Maybe Karen had decided to take pity on me and tell me what to do.
My heart sank as I heard Debbie’s voice.
‘Hey, Sophie. Do you fancy coming shopping with me? I’ve got the day off and Lisa Ho has a sale on.’
To my horror, I burst into tears. Through my sobs I tried to talk. ‘I just . . . I just can’t . . .’And then I had to stop for breath.
‘Sophie, I’m sorry. I know you don’t have heaps of money, but I thought we could have fun anyway.’
Frustrated I shook my head, although the gesture didn’t help Debbie on the other end of the line.
‘I just can’t . . . ’ I tried again, ‘get Sarah to sleep.’
This statement was greeted with silence and then a tentative, ‘Oh.’
‘I’ve tried everything I can think of and nothing helps. Warming the sheets with a hot-water bottle so that the cold doesn’t give her a shock, singing nursery rhymes . . . hell, I’ve even tried tilting the cot on two legs and rocking it while I hide underneath.’
More silence from Debbie and then a hesitant, ‘What does Karen say?’
If I hadn’t felt so desperate, I would have laughed. This was definitely not Debbie’s area of expertise.
‘She says I have to decide by myself. I know you’re supposed to let them cry. I just can’t do it. I can’t . . .’ To my dismay I dissolved into tears again.
‘Okay,’ Debbie said, obviously trying to stay calm. ‘I remember seeing this on an episode of Oprah once. Don’t you have to leave them cry for five minutes, then ten and then twenty, until they go to sleep?’
‘That’s what they say,’ I agreed glumly.
‘And once you’ve done it for a couple of days, aren’t they supposed to drift off to sleep by themselves?’
‘But . . .’ I could hardly say the words. ‘What if Sarah thinks I don’t love her, that she’s been abandoned?’
‘Well, I’ll take her out drinking when she’s eighteen and set her straight,’ Debbie replied more firmly. ‘I don’t know much about babies, but I think you’d have to do more than that before you ruin her life. If you were talking about abandoning her wrapped in an old cardigan on a church step, I’d be a bit more concerned.’
I knew Debbie was right and I was overreacting, but it didn’t help much.
‘What about if I come around tonight and keep you company? It’ll be like a pyjama party,’ she continued. ‘Only with alcohol.’
‘And a screaming baby . . .’ I muttered.
By the time the doorbell rang at seven that night, I had decided to send Debbie home. It was ridiculous to think that I couldn’t deal with this on my own, and I certainly didn’t need Debbie, of all people, to hold my hand.
When I opened the door, though, I knew there was no going back.
Standing on the doorstep like the three wise men were Andrew, Debbie and Ben. However, instead of bearing gold, frankincense and myrrh, they were holding beer, wine and pizzas.
‘Just how long are you planning on staying?’ I asked nervously as Debbie produced her entire Twin Peaks video collection, a family block of chocolate and a huge tub of caramel swirl ice-cream from the bag over her shoulder. ‘You look like you packed for a siege.’
‘Well, if we’re going to do this thing we might as well have fun,’ Debbie replied merrily.
The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach increased. I wished fervently that I hadn’t said anything to Debbie. She, Andrew and Ben had no idea what they were in for.
During the afternoon I had been to the local library and borrowed six books on children and sleeping. The librarian had looked up at me as she scanned the titles.
‘Won’t sleep, hey?’ she asked sympathetically.
I felt tears looming again, so I just shook my head, willing her to change the subject. The last thing I needed was advice from a perfect stranger.
‘I don’t know what the right thing to do is, but all I can say is, don’t do what I did. My three year old still sleeps with us and I suspect she probably will until she hits high school. Plays havoc with your sex life.’
I couldn’t believe a complete stranger was telling me this. Smiling in what I hoped was a consoling way, I headed for the door. At least I didn’t have to worry about the effect Sarah’s refusal to sleep was having on my nonexistent sex life.
By the time my support team had arrived that evening, I had read six different theories about babies and sleep, each one warning of dire consequences for choosing the wrong option. All I knew for sure was that this couldn’t continue. This was my life too and I simply couldn’t live on snatches of sleep and keep breaking into tears all the time.
So, control crying it was. I decided that I’d give it two nights and if things hadn’t improved, I’d think of something else to do.
Glass of wine in hand, Debbie took control of the situation, gathering the four of us around the table as though she were a football coach conducting a pre-game strategy session.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘here’s the plan. The first time Sarah starts to cry we’ll leave her for five minutes and then Sophie will go in and settle her down. After that, we leave her for ten minutes, then fifteen, and so on. We just need to be tough and stick to it. Shouldn’t be too hard.
‘Got it?’ she asked.
We all nodded and I half expected her to call us into a huddle to produce a rousing chant.
Seven hours later, at two in the morning, I found myself standing between Debbie and the door to Sarah’s room.
While Sarah hadn’t quite been crying the entire time, neither had she done much sleeping. I’d fed her twice, putting her straight to bed each time. After each feed it had taken at least half an hour of crying before silence had descended, the time until she started crying again was all too brief.
Andrew and Ben had headed home at eleven, having spent four hours downing the beers and pizza while desperately trying to pretend they were having a good time. Their departure had come soon after Andrew had suggested that maybe the best option was just to turn the music up as far as it would go, so that we couldn’t hear Sarah crying, an option neither Debbie nor I found in any way amusing.
Despite her brave words, Debbie had quickly shown herself to be more affected by Sarah’s crying than any of us, including me. Far from having her play the bad cop role as I’d expected, I’d actually spent most of the night trying to convince her that we were doing the right thing and Sarah wouldn’t hate us for it for the rest of her life.
Once Andrew and Ben had left, we gave up any pretence of having fun and sat on the floor with our backs up against the wall next to Sarah’s closed door, trying to will her to sleep. However, a particularly hysterical burst of crying finally broke Debbie and she sprang to her feet.
‘Sophie, it’s not working – there must be another way,’ she pleaded. Then, abandoning her attempt at negotiation, she threw herself at the door.
Having anticipated her sudden move, I jumped up, spreading my arms protectively across the doorway as she grappled for the doorknob.
Suddenly, blissfully, there was silence. Debbie and I both stared at each other. The silence stretched for one minute, then two. Once fifteen minutes had passed and I’d tiptoed in to check that she was still breathing, we went downstairs and perched ourselves on the edge of the sofa.
After half an hour we allowed ourselves to contemplate the fact that she might finally be asleep.
‘Thank God,’ I breathed quietly. ‘I think we need a drink to celebrate.’
‘Are you mad?’ Debbie asked, looking at me incredulously. ‘If that child is going to sleep, then so are we. We can celebrate another time.’
She strode towards the spare room, shedding clothes as she went, and I paused only for a moment to attempt to take in this abrupt change of roles before heading for my bedroom and the blissful oblivion of sleep.
The next two nights, while not exactly wonderful, were a huge improvement, and by Friday morning I was feeling slightly closer to human and optimistic that we had almost solved the problem.
When the doorbell rang at ten-thirty I opened it to find Debbie standing on my doorstep dressed in a black trouser suit with high-heeled boots and holding a bottle of wine in each hand.
‘It’s okay, Deb,’ I assured her. ‘Sarah only cried for about half an hour last night. I think I should be able to make it to lunchtime without alcoholic assistance.’
‘They wanted me to buy musical toilet brushes,’ Debbie said, ignoring what I’d said.
‘Sorry?’ I said, thinking I must have misheard her.
‘They wanted me to buy musical toilet brushes,’ Debbie repeated. ‘I’ve found tea cosies in the shape of the Sydney Opera House, coat hangers you can fold up to put in your pocket, and enough rubbish to fill ten warehouses, but I told them that a toilet brush which plays “Jingle Bells” when you stick it in the toilet bowl was just too much. I suddenly realised that I had to draw a line in the sand and say there were some things I just wouldn’t do. So I resigned.’
‘You resigned from Mr Cheapy?’ I asked, open-mouthed.
‘Yep,’ she said. Far from looking devastated, she seemed to be very pleased with herself.
‘But what are you going to do? You’ve been with Mr Cheapy forever.’
Still standing on my doorstep, she grinned and waved the wine in my face. ‘Well, to start with, I’m planning to get horrendously drunk. I know you can’t drink much without making Sarah drunk too, but as long as you’ll have two glasses, I’ll drink the rest. Deal?’
‘Sure,’ I nodded, still stunned.
Debbie walked past me into the kitchen, grabbed wineglasses and the bottle opener and headed for the lounge room. I followed and sat down on the sofa beside her, watching her pull the cork out of the first bottle like a woman possessed.
She poured two huge glasses of wine and took a big mouthful. When she spoke again she was no longer smiling. ‘I’m over it all. I was standing in the shower this morning washing my hair and listening to the radio.’ She looked sideways at me and added, ‘Which I can now do as loudly as I like because my grumpy flatmate moved out to have a baby.’
I pretended I hadn’t heard her. Debbie’s habit of listening to the radio in the bathroom at volume ten so that she could hear it over the water hadn’t bothered me so much. I had just been foolish enough to talk to her on behalf of the neighbours once, a conversation which hadn’t been a success.
‘Anyway, the guy who usually reads the news bulletins wasn’t on air and there was an announcement that he’d had a heart attack two nights ago and died. I couldn’t believe how sad I felt.’
Debbie was not the kind of person who usually felt sorry for strangers, so I knew something was really wrong.
‘I realised that if it was me who’d had the heart attack, I would have been really pissed off,’ she continued. ‘It suddenly dawned on me that I’m thirty-one and that maybe a job with a big company isn’t actually what I want. I know for a fact I don’t want to be combing Asia for stuff that breaks after twenty minutes or sits unused in the back of people’s kitchen cabinets for ten years. I’m even starting to think that maybe I want to have children some day.’
She smiled wanly at my raised eyebrows and shook her head.
‘No, let me finish. I’m only just figuring this stuff out for myself as I say it. My mum felt like she was stuck at home raising kids when what she really wanted was an exciting job. I grew up thinking that life without a career would be a failure and that I had to make the most of the opportunities that came my way.’
I nodded, agreeing with what she said, despite my amazement at hearing the words from Debbie’s lips.
She continued. ‘But, you know, I’m not sure that we’re actually better off than the generation before us. We feel like we need to achieve so much and own so much to be happy. I think that by trying to have it all, a lot of people actually end up with nothing.’
‘I think you’re right,’ I said slowly. ‘After two months off work, I really don’t want to go back. I’m starting to think that if somehow I didn’t have to work for the money, I would love to stay home with Sarah. I’d kind of feel, though, that everyone would think that I was taking the easy option.’
‘Yeah, the initial excitement of wearing expensive suits to work and having power lunches in the city wears off pretty quickly,’ Debbie said. ‘Maybe half the problem is that we’ve both always worked for big companies we don’t believe in – I certainly didn’t dream about scouring the world for Mr Cheapy when I was a little girl.
‘You know,’ she sighed as she drained the remaining wine in her glass and reached over to fill it up again, ‘the absolute best thing about resigning from that place is that I won’t have to listen to thirty minutes of Mr Cheapy jokes every Saturday morning. My job has entertained everyone but me for years.’
‘So what will you do now?’ I asked. ‘I presume you’re not planning on asking Jeffrey for some housekeeping money each week?’
Jeffrey was Debbie’s current man. They’d met the week before in the dry goods aisle at the local supermarket. She is the only woman I know who has ever managed a romantic liaison while shopping. The only people I ever seemed to run into were harassed women with three children throwing cans on the floor, or old ladies ruthlessly squeezing fruit to figure out what was ripe.
Debbie did try to educate me as to how to spot a single man from the contents of his shopping basket (dry pasta and 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioners were major clues, apparently, while a man with any form of green vegetable was definitely married or cohabiting) but it always seemed too hard.
‘I think Jeffrey and I are reaching the end of the road,’ she said. ‘And no, I don’t have a clue what I want to do. My boss came into my office to talk about the exciting new ideas he had for the Christmas range about an hour ago. First on the list was the singing toilet brush and all of a sudden I knew I’d had enough. I told him I couldn’t do it any more and left him sitting on the other side of the desk with his mouth open, then headed straight for the bottle shop and came here. This has been coming for a long time, though – it was really just the toilet brush that broke this camel’s back . . . There are plenty of jobs out there; I guess I’ll just have to get my résumé together again and see what’s around.’
A sudden thought struck me. ‘What about setting up some kind of business together?’ I asked impulsively. ‘Both of us have got to earn money but are sick to death of big companies. We’re reasonably intelligent and skilled, surely we can come up with something.’
‘Mmm, I guess . . .’ Debbie replied uncertainly.
I was suddenly excited about the idea of being able to earn money without leaving Sarah and so I ignored Debbie’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s something I used to think about every now and then, but it always seemed a lot easier to have a pay packet coming my way each week. Maybe we need to put our skills together and give it a go. What about something like corporate parties and client functions?’ I suggested. ‘Or maybe a gift service for busy executives?’
‘You know, maybe it’s not such a bad idea . . .’ mused Debbie. ‘But we’ve got to think about it. Providing a service means that unless you or I are working, there’s no money being generated. If you want to be with Sarah and I want to have enough time to figure what else I want to do with my life, we need to do something different.
‘What we need is a product,’ she continued. ‘That way if we get the product out it can be selling and making money for us while we’re asleep or sitting on the beach.’
Debbie drained the last of the first bottle of wine into my glass and absently opened the second one. ‘Mmmm,’ she said as she stared off into the middle distance. ‘All I know is that it’s not going to be made of plastic. I’ve bought enough plastic in the last five years to sink a battleship. I would love to sell something I thought was a great product which would really work for the people who buy it.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ I agreed. ‘Just once it would be great to promote a product I believe in. What are some of the good things you’ve seen on your travels? Maybe furniture, or clothes?’
‘You know,’ said Debbie, ‘what we really need to do is think of something that will fill a gap in the market. We want something that buyers for big stores will go for because they don’t have anything like it.’
‘Special candles?’ I suggested vaguely. ‘Or massage oils?’
‘No, all that kind of stuff has been done to death,’ said Debbie. ‘Even if we get products that are really good, it would be too hard to differentiate them from everything else on the market. What about baby stuff? There’s a stack of money in babies and weddings. They’re things people are emotional about and so are willing to spend ridiculous amounts of cash on.’
‘Deb, I’m only just figuring out which way up I’m supposed to hold Sarah, I don’t really think I’m up to the stage of spotting gaps in the baby products market,’ I replied. ‘How about your specialty – men. Maybe you could write a manual for men coping with rejection – or one for women telling them how to juggle five men at once.’
My one glass of wine had gone straight to my sleep-deprived head and I was finding it hard to be serious about what Debbie was suggesting. The remainder of the bottle, which Debbie had drunk, seemed to be having the same effect on her and she took my suggestion seriously, considering it for a moment before shaking her head.
‘No, writing isn’t my thing,’ she said. ‘You know, Sophie,’ Debbie continued in a sudden change of subject, slurring her words slightly as the full force of the wine hit her. ‘It still seems very weird to me to see you with a baby. Are you really happy doing all this stuff?’
‘I can’t even remember what life without Sarah was like,’ I replied honestly. ‘I find it hard to comprehend that Max and I made this little person and that she’s mine. Somehow I keep expecting someone from the hospital to arrive to take her back. What it does is put everything into perspective. Being with her as she grows up and learns to do things seems much more important than sitting in tense board meetings debating how best to make a company even more money.’
‘So you still haven’t heard anything from Max since he did his disappearing act?’ Debbie asked.
‘Nope,’ I replied shortly. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t help but be hurt by the fact that Max hadn’t called.
Suddenly Debbie’s mobile phone rang. She answered it and the normal, invincible Debbie re-emerged as she arranged to meet Jeffrey and a group of friends for lunch in the city.
‘Got to go, Sophie,’ she said as she hung up. ‘Although I think I need some water before I do.’
I poured her a glass of water, which she gulped down before pulling a brush through her hair, putting some lipstick on without a mirror (a technique that never failed to impress me) and heading out the door.
‘Thanks for the chat,’ she said as she left. ‘Maybe another twenty drinks at lunch will make things crystal clear.’ A look of uncertainty passed briefly over her face before she pulled herself together and smiled brightly. ‘Talk to you soon,’ she said, kissing me on the cheek then bounding down the path in search of a taxi.