When my oldest was two, he’d wake up at dawn, gather some of his most precious possessions (Matchbox cars), put them in a wicker basket, and head to our room. He would stand at the door and extend the basket, a nonverbal offering of sorts, in exchange for us letting him into bed with us. We would refuse and take him back to his bed. This cycle would repeat every fifteen minutes for the next two hours until we all got up. Several mornings we found him asleep just outside our door, wanting to come in but too afraid of being rejected.
There are few things about parenting I regret more than turning away our oldest from joining us in sleep.
Our intentions were good. Western research on co-sleeping emphasizes the importance of kids developing coping systems and confidence from sleeping on their own.1 Also it’s important that parents nourish their own relationship and intimacy. But there’s no one-size-fits-all here, and most cultures lean on the side of a pack approach to sleep. (Note: I’m talking about parents co-sleeping with young children, as there are safety risks associated with co-sleeping with infants.) It takes a few books on raising kids to realize one thing: nobody has an algorithm for successful parenting.2
I counsel new parents to do what feels right for them and to trust their instincts. Our instinct, and what we’ve done the last several years, is to ensure that everyone starts in their own bed (though our dog sleeps at the foot of the bed of our youngest), and see how things play out the rest of the night. Some nights everyone wakes up where they started; most nights there are three or four in our bed. Occasionally I exit the crowded parking lot and enjoy some solo slumber in the recently vacated bed of my oldest.
In the United States, parents are closeted about the amount of co-sleeping that takes place. We’ve been inculcated in the bullshit notion that it’s unnatural. There are few things that feel more natural. The Japanese are big on co-sleeping, referring to the practice as “the river”: mom and dad as the banks, the child in between as the water.3
The waters in our bed are serene rivers that storm unexpectedly, delivering kicks to the face and errant questions (“Dad, is it time to get up?” “No, go back to sleep.”). My youngest is most comfortable sleeping perpendicular across my throat like a 35-pound bow tie. This is strangely relaxing for me, and I nod off. Or it could be mild asphyxiation that renders me unconscious. My oldest likes to have one foot touching his mom or dad, at all times. He will sit up every ninety minutes and just look around the room, then go back to sleep.
My dad’s biggest fear, as a child of the Depression, is that he’ll die broke (he’s fine). My biggest fear is that my selfish tendencies translate to a lack of investment in relationships, and I’ll die alone. One place I’ve invested, early and often, is in my boys. I’m banking on the small investments made several times a week in the middle of the night paying off. Less space in bed, errant bruises, and generally less sleep are deposits compounding toward one goal: that they will remember their parents chose them over anything else.
We come into and leave this world alone and vulnerable, wanting the touch of people we know love us so we can sleep in peace. I trust that these investments will make it instinctual for our boys, when their mom and dad are old and vulnerable, to lie with and comfort us … so we can sleep in peace.