Three in the Bed

by Zakia Munirah Spalter

A mini co-sleeper was one of the first things I registered for after learning I was pregnant. I was intent on breastfeeding and the convenience of having my baby by my side made the decision to co-sleep an easy one to make. Fast-forward two years and I am now of the opinion that the decision to stop co-sleeping was one of the best I ever made.

The reason I stopped sharing sleep, as the practice of co-sleeping is sometimes called, is simple: I was hit by a car. In bed. Let me explain. The night in question, my almost two-year-old son managed to pee the diaper right off his body, soaking his PJs through to the sheets. We'd recently begun moving him from our bed to his crib once he fell asleep for the night in a half-hearted attempt to reclaim the bed as our own, but truth be told, he slept with us more often than not. That night, my husband and I woke to his wails of discomfort and as neither one of us were up to changing anything more than his jammies at 2 AM (the sheets would have to wait till morning) into the bed he came.

Soon my little boy's arms were wrapped around my neck. His breathing became more regular and his still sweet baby breath warmed my face, as his mouth was maybe half an inch from my eyeball. In the arms of my sleeping babe, I was reminded of the year and a half we spent breast feeding nights and co-sleeping exclusively.

Seconds later one of his feet jabbed me in the groin as he cuddled closer. Resettled, he began to snore. Neither offense was enough to entirely wrest the rose-colored glasses from my memories of co-sleeping and so despite the occasional baby kung fu kick and the snoring I drifted off to sleep. Far too soon I found myself awake again. My son, in that abandon of movement specific to toddlers and horrendously drunk people, turned, flung out his arm and whacked me good. In the eye. Hard. With a tiny metal matchbox racecar still tightly clutched in one hand. I can't be sure, but I think it was the maroon one with the black stripe down the center. It broke the skin just below my eyebrow - a sad little brow that hasn't seen the underside of a waxing strip since the child was born. I cursed in a long slow stage whisper so as not to wake my sleeping angel. That moment was the beginning of the end of our co-sleeping days.

Though we no longer share sleep, I already cherish sweet memories of sleeping with my baby - and waking, and tossing, and turning, and waking and sleeping again.

My child, as very few do, has zero concept of personal space. Perhaps if my husband and I had a custom-made, nine-foot-wide bed as Brad and Angelina purportedly do for their multinational brood, we'd still share a family bed. The fact is, when co-sleeping with our toddler, the space between my husband and I becomes vast and insurmountable. With three in the bed, when the little one says roll over, the husband and I are banished to the far reaches of the mattress forced to assume our nighttime role of dual human bed rails to protect the dreaming interloper between us from tumbling to the floor. Deep in sleep, our bundle of joy almost always manages to form the letter H with our three bodies. In stop-motion fashion, he'll position his body parallel to the headboard wedging himself between our two bodies, preferably with a foot or both in his father's face.

To be honest, I like the idea of a family bed. It fits with my attachment parenting ideals. Neither my husband nor I fall into any of the risk categories associated with the dangers of co-sleeping which include obesity, drug, alcohol or tobacco abuse, or a penchant for overstuffed down bedding. And goodness knows, there is no way I would have breast fed successfully if I had to go to another room, down the hall, deep in the night to feed the baby. But the fact is, the only one in our family who ever got a good night's sleep while co-sleeping was the baby. He'd awake refreshed, well fed, and smiling. On the other hand, dear husband and I began our mornings with all the hop-to-it-ness of zombie extras from Night of the Living Dead.

The night of the car incident marked 15 or so calendar months of breastfeeding and co-sleeping at night. That next day, while inspecting my bruised and slightly swollen brow in the early morning light, it was decided that our son would forever more sleep in his own bed. Our plan of action was to night wean our son so I could quit moonlighting as an all-night-long-milk-bar barkeep and he would stop waking up to nurse. It took several arduous weeks but eventually we got our son to sleep through the night from roughly 8 PM to 7:30 AM. (In case you're wondering, we relied on a mash-up of info from Elizabeth Pantley's book, The No-Cry-Sleep Solution, advice found trolling various online parenting boards at god-forsaken hours, essays from attachment parenting gurus Dr. Jay Gordon and Dr. William Sears and the sheer determination brought on by sheer exhaustion).

Though we no longer share sleep, I already cherish sweet memories of sleeping with my baby - and waking, and tossing, and turning, and waking and sleeping again. Since becoming a parent, I've learned to be flexible. Co-sleeping worked for our family until it just didn't anymore. And I have no regrets choosing to co-sleep and then choosing to end the arrangement when we did. Besides, on occasion, okay, every morning, our son joins us in bed - but even then, his cars are never welcome.

Illustration by Aurora Andrews

Zakia is a writer. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and son.