Separation anxiety. It's heartwarming, heartbreaking, and utter wall-climbing misery.
I haven't been able to put my child down in his own bed for a week. I know there are many moms out there thinking (and please hear this like a fabulous gay man says it, because that's the voice in my head... No, it doesn't make sense, and I totally don't care), "S.L., if you would just properly sleep train your child, he would sleep in his own crib every night. Co-sleeping is bad, mmkay?" but my answer to that is... nonexistent. Okay. I'll get back to you when I figure out something witty.
I co-sleep. That is, I bedshare. All these words for parenting techniques drive me crazy. Technicalities, blah blah blah. My baby sleeps attached to my boob. That is what I do. And let me tell you; I never even considered it while I was pregnant, and long before I had a cute parasite attached to the side of my uterus. I even thought, from my lofty pre-child days, "How lame that they can't even deal with crying long enough for their child to fall asleep in their own, wonderful, decorated crib in a beautiful nursery."
I'm ashamed to even think about it.
Okay, back on subject; separation anxiety. Ugh! He will not only cry in the middle of smiling at a stranger because ohnowhere'sMommy! and Lord knows he would totally fail at finding Waldo on the best of days, but he refuses to sleep without being held by either one of us. He wakes up, scrunching his cute little nose, grunting, whining, fussing, not sure what to do with any of his limbs, and circling his one arm in this demented little baby way like maybe at some point it'll suddenly become awesome which of course it won't and he just keeps circling it over and over until he cries hysterically because nothing is happening. It's great to watch, actually. If you were a terrible parent. Which I'm not.
Of course this all happens about 5 minutes after I put him down for the night. It doesn't matter if it's the first time or the tenth time. He just wants boobs nuzzled against his face. That's all there is to it. Manboobs are a poor second choice, but still a choice. Pacifiers are gruntingly accepted if his belly has decided there is no vacancy. And Mom is glued to an adorable little boobsucker all night.
Good news: He's cute when he finally wakes up in the morning, all toe-grabby and cooing.
Bad news: I have to wait until morning to see his cute side.
During the day it's all anxious whining, wanting to be held (nothing new here, really), wanting Mommy to whip out the magic boobs of wonder and light, wanting Daddy to play nonstop, wanting Doggie to give him attention, talking to the ceiling fan, crying angrily when the ceiling fan doesn't talk back, fussing when he's tired because obviously sleeping isn't going to help him which is why he never wants to fall asleep and babies know freaking everything didn't you know that, and other obnoxious baby things.
I love it.
Most of the time.
Okay; pretty much all the time. Because face it; when will they ever want us this much ever again in their lives? I mean. Besides when they're flat broke.