Just Saying

It's 1 am and the apartment is quiet. I can hear the wind rustling leaves outside the living room window, and some kind of night-insect creaking away. It sounds like autumn. A good time to catch up on reading, writing, and blogging, so here I am, typey-typing away. In the bedroom, my husband is curled up on the bed with the baby, giving her a bottle.

After a while, I hear some gentle snores from the bedroom, so I suspect he has fallen asleep on the bed with her. I should go check on them. But I keep typing. Then I hear her making a little noise of wakefulness: "eh, eh" like she's starting to thrash around. I hop up and go into the bedroom - just in time to see her roll off the bed and hit the floor. She lets out a scream of pain and surprise. I scoop her up and rock her as she continues to scream. My husband lifts his head; he was stretched out full-length on the bed, facing away from her, and sound asleep. She was down by his calf when she rolled off.

There are many things in this parenting game that he is better at than I am. He's better at playing with her, making her laugh, giving her baths, and figuring out what she wants to eat when she's in a fussy mood. He's more patient with her and more humorous. He is a wonderful dad who does his share and more.

But. She slept in our bed for the first six weeks of her life, nestled up close to my flank. Each time she woke in the night, I would breast-feed her before she even had a chance to cry. I protected her with my body from my husband's occasional roll-overs. I knew there was no risk that I would roll over on her myself. I was so alert to her that the slightest movement or noise from her would bring me fully awake, instantly. I would never have let her roll out of bed or have fallen asleep with her in a dangerous position. And the very first, only, time he slept next to her, he did. Of course, she wasn't really hurt. I soothed her and put her back in her crib, and she fell asleep immediately.

Just saying.