The Family Bed

When we had Justin, our first child, we decided that both we and he would feel much at night if he slept in our bed, and with that decision, we stepped onto a road that 18 years later had better be darn close to ending. Attachment parenting. I still believe in the fundamentals. As a young parent I felt that it was my responsibility to be educated about parenting philosophies. I had grown up in a very detached house. No breastfeeding, no cosleeping. If we decided to knock on our parents door it was only because we were either delirious with fever or had caused the toilet to clog with vomit and couldn’t fix it ourselves. That was not what I wanted for my children. I wanted them close, at the breast until they were finished nursing, in bed until they were secure enough to leave and ultimately embraced by the feeling that we would always be right there when they needed us. It all sounded so right and reasonable 18 years ago. Flash forward 15 years. I was sitting on the sofa reading a book when Mattie and Ella, who were a little over two came to join me. They were both carrying plates with hotdogs, goldfish crackers and grapes. They climbed up on my lap, lifted up my shirt, each took a bite of hot dog, chatted and took a sip of breast milk. I looked up at my husband who was standing in the kitchen and said. “Is there something about this that seems a bit . . . insane?” They are washing down hotdogs with breast milk. Maybe it’s time to wind this nursing era down. Mattie looked up from my breast and said, “No way, we love nursie.” Did I forget to mention that my children anthropomorphized my breasts around age one and took to calling them Nursie? They determined that nursie was an entity separate from me and when asked to describe Nursie generally painted a picture of a good looking young man who resembled their father. This had clearly gone completely awry, as had the family bed, which now occupied everyone, including Justin (who was 15) from time to time. Good intentions gone really bad. Of course I could complain about it forever. I had no idea how to undo any of it without undermining the lessons that I was committed to teaching them. Flash forward three more years. We live in Austin now in a house with the kids rooms upstairs and the master suite down. The kids rooms hold their desks and clothes. Everyone sleeps with us and we (Ren and I) have not had a good night of sleep in almost two decades. Last weekend we bought bunk beds for the twins, new sheets for everyone and decided that for a month, we will all sleep upstairs until everyone feels comfortable with the space on the second floor. While I would never parent the way I was parented, I certainly understand how my sixty six year old mother has stayed as beautiful and vibrant as she has. The secret wasn’t beauty products or early preventative plastic surgery. It was a locked door and knock only if the house is on fire parenting policy. It never would have worked for me, but let’s just say that I have come to understand.