Baby insomnia

“Whatever method you choose, the key is to be consistent.”

Such reads the sage advice in the so-called “sleep bible,” Healthy Sleep Habits Happy Child. The author and child sleep researcher explains that whether you let your baby cry himself to sleep or soothe him at each cry, the key to the whole family getting some semblance of enough sleep is to “be consistent.” And being consistent is the one thing that Colin and I are consistently failing at.

But you can’t really blame us. Being a parent these days puts you squarely in the middle of a vociferous and highly polarized debate that leaves you dizzy with indecision.

To oversimplify, one side, made up mainly of mainstream medical practitioners and most of our parents, says that babies need to learn how to put themselves to sleep. This requires, to some degree or another, letting the little one cry herself to sleep. After a few tortuous days of this, babies get the idea and can miraculously put themselves to sleep without any intervention. This side makes the very compelling case that, as difficult as it is to hear your precious baby cry, in the end they learn a valuable life skill and, perhaps even more importantly, you regain enough sleep to stop being a zombie and start being a happier and more attentive parent during the day. They argue that a few days of persistence and perseverance will be rewarded with years of better sleep for everyone. And don’t worry, they say, our parents let us cry and we’re just fine.

The other side vehemently disagrees calling this practice cruel and unnatural. This “attachment parenting” camp, also generally advocates co-sleeping, long time breast feeding and wearing your baby is a sling close to your body. They take more of an anthropological view, drawing greatly on the wisdom of indigenous cultures as well as new research showing the benefits of many of these practices. They argue, quite convincingly, that babies are born expecting the world to look like it has for the past 10,000 years, not the modern world of individualism and personal space. They are hard wired to expect the continual attention they have received for millennia when they slept near their mother’s warm body and were worn on her back during the day with constant access to her milk. This camp notes that the reason it’s physically torturous to hear you little baby cry all night is because mothers are evolutionarily programmed to respond to these cries and babies to expect this response. Ignoring your little one for extended periods unduly stresses them. It may be taxing to respond to every cry, but in a few short years when your children have firmly established their independence and you are at least a bother and at most an embarrassment, you will look back nostalgically at the tender intimacy of these nighttime feedings.

I find either perspective more compelling depending on my level of sleep deprivation and frustration. And I have thus been reliably inconsistent in my response to poor little Caleb’s cries. But I had never totally ignored his cries, until a particularly desperate week, when Colin and I decided to go for broke and try the full “cry it out” method. This was, as expected, torture. I knew I couldn’t take hearing him cry, but – bowing to the sleep-researchers greater good argument – I resigned myself to endure it for a period of time. My mom friends all described 2-3 painful nights followed by the sweet relief of a baby who could not only put himself to sleep, but who slept through the night. Sounded pretty good!

Well, after 5 nights of hour and half crying bouts and only mild success, we, very despondently, gave up on this experiment. I was willing to ignore his cries (at times locking myself in the bathroom with the fan on to fight the compulsion to go to him) if there was some payoff. And he was at times able to cry himself to sleep in a tolerable amount of time (15 minutes or less) and could nod off with only a wimper after a feed. But it wasn’t consistent, and, in the end, the improvement wasn’t dramatic enough to warrant all that blasted crying.

So, that left us right where we started. I’ll reliably feed him after a long stretch of sleep, but if he wakes up just hours after we put him down or right before the sun comes up, Colin and I reliably look at each other frozen by the “let him cry or go to him” indecision. And then the voice wearing a lab coat tells me to let him cry and the voice in a dashiki tells me to go to him.
It goes something like this:

Lab coat: Look, you’re teaching him how to go to sleep. If you go to him you’re only depriving him of an opportunity to learn to soothe himself.

Dashiki: Don’t you hear your baby suffering? It’ll only take a few enjoyable minutes of nursing and cuddling to put him back to a sound sleep.

LC: But that’ll only encourage dependency and it’ll take that much longer to get you all sleeping through the night. Doesn’t a full 8 hours of sleep sound heavenly?

D: Listen to your baby, Kim. He’s simply expressing his needs as he knows how to and you are more than capable of fulfilling them. He sounds really sad.

Me: OK you two. I’ll just wait 15 minutes and if he’s still crying I’ll go in there.

LC: OK, but you’re just teaching him that if he cries for15 minutes, he’ll get fed.

D: Well, if you’re going to get him anyway and waiting just teaches him to cry longer, than you may as well get him now and spare both of you 15 minutes of anguish.

LC: Hey, he’s not in “anguish.” Our parents let us cry and there’s no evidence that crying leads to any long term damage, you hippie.

D: Then why are half the people we know in therapy!? Isn’t it entirely possible that this is doing some damage? Everyone knows what happens to kids at the extreme end of neglect. Like those babies from Romanian orphanages who become semi-psychotic solely due to their treatment in infancy despite the loving home they are adopted into. You - of all people - should appreciate what a delicate developmental stage this is.

LC: You’re stupid.

D: You’re cruel.

Me: Stop arguing!!

Caleb: Waaahhh!!!!!!!.

Me: Arghhhhh. Colin, what should I do?

Colin: Kim, I really don’t think you should go in there.

Me: OK. (pause) I’m going in….

The Daily Grind

After a tumultuous summer of moving in with my sister with my sleep-allergic newborn while my husband worked at a job half a globe away, and then being reunited and traveling to yet another corner of the world - South Africa - to visit his parents and tragically watch his dear sweet mother unexpectedly die, and then traveling back to Boston to quickly find a new apartment and day care before work and school started while still nursing our grief (whew), I was all too happy to settle into a boring routine.

So, here I am, settled into my boring routine. We wake up with the crows, play hot potato with the baby while we shower, eat breakfast and pack up for the day. Caleb and I get the 7:28 train downtown; I somehow fill up my work day, grab Caleb, and take the 4:40 back. We play for half an hour and then resume our baby hot potato while making dinner and entertaining and bathing the baby. Then we fall into the couch with our dinner, watch a Daily Show episode, catch up on emails and go to bed sometime around 9:30.

There’s something really comforting about this, but also something drudging and tedious about it. I love my life, but sometimes I feel like I’m sleepwalking through it.

But then there are moments that wake me from my ennui. Like those times when I’m nursing my little cherub of a baby and he peeks up at me with his wide content eyes, his tiny hands reaching for my face, and I feel a rush of intense and protective love. Like when Colin and I are engaged in a heated exchange of ideas and I step outside myself for a moment and marvel at his passion and intelligence and feel lucky to have him as a partner. And all of this makes me happy in a weird way to have a monotonous backdrop so that these small and special moments stand in even starker relief, revealing the full power of their beauty.

blogger prerequisites

I was thinking this morning about what I might write about today. I thought about exploring a number of things that have sprung to mind throughout the day: It was hard to avoid commentary on Sarah Palin’s new memoir and she’s a public phenomenon incredibly fun to dissect. A Lady Gaga video made me wonder if there would be any end to the hypersexualization of popular culture. Would it swing the other way or keep going until we’re all naked and replacing handshakes with other lascivious acts? And then I wondered if I was turning into my mother.

But I rejected each subject knowing that there were others out there – sociologists and media commentators - who could write with so much more insight and authority on any of these subjects. All this going through my head, I turned to Colin and said,

“I’m not sure I can write about anything with enough authority to do it justice.”

To which he stared at me with sincere incredulity and said,

“Kim! You’re a blogger now. That’s practically a prerequisite”

Blogging on blogging

I have to admit, I feel a bit sheepish about this whole blogging thing. I guess it’s just the act of placing my thoughts and ideas in the public domain that seem kind of self-important - as if my observations are too profound not to be shared with the world. And the truth is, the world is doing just fine without my 2 cents. So, why not just keep a journal? Why a blog?

I actually wrote another blog when I was working in a West African refugee camp, and I found it a really useful way to keep friends and family current on my misadventures. And blogs are great for that. Especially with our modern families increasingly thrown to the four winds. My family is a perfect case. We’re in Boston, my folks are in Chicago, my sister in Colorado, my brother-in-law in Niagra NY, my father-in-law in South Africa. And my friends are equally scattered. So, blogging (like facebook and skype) is a nifty solution to the modern problem of yanking in a community from a continually geographically expanding group of friends and family.

In the more useful incarnations, blogging can also be a great way to share information on anything anyone wants to geek out about: vegan macrobiotic breakfast recipes, clam digging techniques on the eastern seaboard, or 18th century Austrian lamp collecting. One of the greatest wonders of humanity is the diversity of bizarre proclivities. And the modern world gives those so inclined enough room to indulge and become expert in their odd passions. And lucky for us they have an outlet for their years of accumulated knowledge. So, when I truly do want to find out how to cook a week’s worth of meals for under $30, a simple Google search will reveal the insights from someone in Brooklyn has done just such an experiment. Of course, some might argue that this surfeit of information can do as much harm as good, but I’ll leave that debate for another time.

But none of this is really what I’m doing here. I’m not giving much thought to what “the folks at home” might want to see. And I can’t say that there is a singular passion I want to expound upon in this forum. I’m actually going old school and writing a journal. So, back to my original question: Why a blog?

Everyone who I told I was planning to undertake this writing exercise said the same thing: “You should turn it into a blog.” Isn’t that strange? It’s like if you’re going to take the effort to produce something, you can’t just keep it to your self. No one does that. We all put our pictures of flikr and our videos on youtube and our well wishes on facebook for all the world to see. If it’s not shared, it doesn’t exist anymore. I have my doubts as to whether that's a good thing.

So, I think I’m ambivalent about this whole thing, but succumbing to peer pressure.

I’m sure I’ll write differently knowing that there’s a potential audience. I’ll make things more digestible and organized. This post is half as long as it would have been if it was for my eyes only, so you’re spared my rambling digressions on the pitfalls of the overabundance of information and whether blogging is a safety valve for paranoid nutjobs or an outsized platform for their hate. I definitely work harder on my entries than if they were for my eyes only, but I wonder if I’m less honest.

Who knows how long this experiment will last. I guess I’m enjoying it at least because I can decorate the site with ironic pictures and play with the format and fonts. I guess I’ll keep doing this until I run out of things to ponder or the motivation to tell “you” about it.

Glenn Beck

Like so many of my demographic of over-educated liberal-leaning city dwellers I’m an avid Daily Show follower. In fact, when Colin and I made our resolution to stop watching TV we didn’t even have to discuss the fact that the Daily Show would be an exception. Yes, it’s liberal leaning, but Stewart takes the dems and President Obama to task too and is best when he’s exposing the hypocrisy and idiocy of the ratings-driven cable news media. It’s not “where I get my news,” but it’s definitely where I get my satire.

Glenn Beck if a favorite and easy target for the show, and it’s definitely where I get my Beck exposure. Stewart’s clips show an overwrought fear-mongering conspiracy-promoting lunatic. It makes for great TV. And I find myself talking, with authority, about how horrible Glenn Beck is for the country. But what do I really know about him? Should I be judging the man from 10 second clips that could be very well taken out of context as fodder for a punch line? So, Colin and I decided to do it: to actually watch a Glenn Back show. Here’s the clip. http://www.glennbeck.com/content/articles/article/198/32734/

Turns out, after a careful study of the show, that Glenn Beck is in fact an overwrought fear-mongering conspiracy-promoting lunatic, even more so than the cartoonish parodies of him portray. And I’m even more worried. The problem is, if you can get past the crazy, he’s a pretty compelling orator. That’s the secret of his success and of his danger. He can convince you despite a dismal lack of evidence and any semblance of a coherent argument. And he primarily convinces you to be outraged and afraid. And there’s something deliciously satisfying about being outraged, so we’re an easy sell.

What’s his secret? First of all, he’s dramatic. He’s asks a question (what is the American dollar really based on?), pauses as if he’s really considering the magnitude of the implications and then slowly re-engages you with his reveal. He builds his points to a dramatic crescendo and slows it down to show you that he’s still in control. He’s got the cadence and swagger of a Sunday morning televangelist. And he actually cries. Real tears. This is great theater. And hey, we love drama. We love emotion. And passion in and of itself has a way of grabbing you.

Then, he mocks. Showing choice clips of unfortunate moments and then rolling his eyes and sarcastically declaring, “oh yeah, we really (pause) really want this guy in charge of your money.” He does all this while simultaneously singing your praises: you true Americans, the moral and economic backbone of this country, you who recognize common sense when you see it. And there it is. By force of this rhetoric you are on his side. You are not with the guy being mocked, you are with the masses being praised.

He uses his lack of expertise as an asset. “Now, I’m no ‘economist’ (full use of air quotes) but…” And the word “economist” is absolutely dripping with disdain and topped off with an eye roll. What a relief to the viewer. We may not understand their sophisticated graphs and arguments anyway. So before we have a chance to let this make us feel inferior, Beck relieves us by declaring that these experts miss the simple and obvious truths anyway. Phew. Now hit these eggheads with some common sense Beck! Hell, why even have experts? If all it takes is some folk wisdom to understand and recommend policy, let’s do away with PhD programs and think tanks. But I digress.

His next trick: he positions himself as an underdog truth-seeker revealing something that those with interests (the media, the liberal elite, the government) won’t tell you. He appeals to the cynical side of you. “I am the only one brave enough to confront Al Gore with his hypocrisy. No one else will ask the question. Gore, if you care sooo much about the environment, why (dramatic pause) do you eat meat?” He then gleefully and triumphantly reveals his prize: A clip of Diane Sawyer confronting Gore with the Beck-inspired question on her morning show. She asks the question. And then the clip inexplicably ends. We don’t get to hear the response from Gore.

What!?!? You’ve finally got someone to confront Gore with his supposed hypocrisy and you don’t bother to see how he answers the accusation? But answers are not his goal. In fact, Beck did this at least twice in the same show. In another instance, he mocked the Administration for talking about jobs “saved” during the recession and then showed a clip of another anchor (David Gregory) asking Tim Geithner how they quantify a “saved job” (Beck’s exact criticism). And that’s it! Question is asked and then the clip comes to an abrupt halt. But before you can begin to wonder about the answer, Beck is on to the next rant. Who needs a cogent argument when you can use rhetorical slight of hand. Which brings me to my next point.

He doesn’t make arguments, he plants seeds. A favorite tack is leading with “I’m not saying…” followed by an outrageous claim like “Obama hates White people.” He then spends the rest of his energy building a case for why something he supposedly is “not saying” is true. But Beck’s “building a case” is usually just drawing dubious connections and shamelessly using emotionally charged imagery to make his point.

In the show we watched he repeatedly ran the following clips: 1) the President saying he consulted with SIEU on health care reform (doesn’t seem like that big of a deal) and, 2) a clip in which the President of SEIU says “workers of the world unite.” Now, I’ve heard reasonable criticisms of labor unions’ outsized influence on health care reform from both left and right, so Beck had room to make point here. But instead he opts for going straight to the most outlandish and incendiary conclusion: that the Obama administration bends towards communism. It’s not only pretty “out there”, it’s intellectually lazy. He puts up a Soviet era poster to point out the similarities and then in his typical rhetorical flourish mocks, “We know Obama said he’s definitely not a Marxist. Rigghht?? (pause) Right???”

What he’s convincing you to believe, other than being untrue, is also dangerous. He would have you believe that Obama snuck into the Presidency based on dubious citizenry and is secretly pushing for communist-style wealth distribution, that the media is controlled by a cabal of elite who actively disdain the “real America” of which you are a part. If all of this were true, I’d be pretty outraged too. But he offers no solutions. Only this: “I, for one, am afraid. And you should be too.” He offers to organize rallies as outlets for your collective and growing anger. But no solutions. So, what’s an outraged citizen to do? That’s what scares me.

Magnificent Muffin

Going about your day, do you ever feel like you just stepped into a scene that seems flawlessly staged for a movie set? Where the shop owner suits the shop a little too perfectly? The bird faced librarian, with bifocals on a chain hugs her cardigan tightly around her looks down her nose and hushes you? Where everything is just so quintessential and stereotyped that you look around for the hidden cameras and seeing none, laugh to yourself and catalogue the details for friends but fear you’ll never quite capture it? Well, Colin and I had just such an experience yesterday and at the risk of not doing it justice I’ll attempt a description.

Yesterday, having a day off and a morning to ourselves, Colin and I ventured out to the local coffee/breakfast shop, Magnificant Muffin, we’d been meaning to try. Walking by you’d almost miss it, tucked in between the local post office and the hair salon, but you’d know it by the stream of customers, some of whom run to catch the train just around the corner. If you look carefully you’ll see taped to the window some newspaper articles highlighting its virtues, including winning the “best coffee in Medford” last year.

Mag Muffin doesn't look like much even after you enter. It is a small space with a counter that conceals none of the boxed and crated deliveries in the back, and it has a cramped area in front with mismatched chairs and tables to sit with your coffee. But it’s the walls that first capture your attention. They are absolutely papered with pictures. Pictures of children, and literally hundreds of them. Christmas cards, the first kindergarten photo, the boy posed over his soccer ball, the ballet recital all from different families, but all of the same Magnificant Muffin neighborhood family. Because that is what we’ve walked into. We’ve walked into that local gathering place that modern folk wax nostalgic about, that conservative pundits glorify as the “true America.” A place where all the customers interact with the closeness and familiarity of extended family.

This is the scene we walked into: A middle aged cop and woman, who appears to be his neighborhood gossip informant, sitting at the corner table chatting with the patron, Bea, a stout and matronly woman whose labored movements and frequent leans on the counter indicated that running this shop is exhausting, but a labor of love. A sweatpant and ponytail-clad woman, Annie, then walks in and gets her “usual” and a box of Muffins for her kids, who are still asleep at home. Bea asks about them.
“Can you believe Johnny is already started kindergarten?”
Bea shakes her head. “They grow up so fast.”
Two other middle-aged women then walk in and greet Bea,
“Hi sweetheart.”
“The regular darlings?”
“Yes, but no sugar for me this time hon. I’m trying to cut down.”
As Annie grabs her box of Muffins and heads out the door she passes the two new patrons and says,
“Hi Mrs. Capuano. Hi Mrs. O’Neil.”
Clearly they’ve known each other since Annie was a little girl, but she wouldn’t dream of calling them by their first names even though they are all mothers now. Just as this exchange ends, a
man walks in and is greeted with “Good morning father.”

At this point, Colin and I look at each other. This is too good to be true. A policeman, a housewife, some grandmotherly figures and a priest!? We’ve just stepped into a Normal Rockwell painting. Just as we are thinking this, another man walks through the door and the priest teases,
“Hey! Look who it is! Mr. Moneybags!”
This growing group of patrons all seem in on the joke. Colin and look at each other, this time slack jawed, and I whisper,
“Did we just walk into 1953?” Colin whispers back,
“This should be in black and white.”
We giggle to each other, and then slowly step back from the scene afraid that any sudden movements would disrupt the time warp. But are both thinking the same thing: We want in on this Magnificant Muffin family.

Baby commute

I’m starting to take little Caleb to work with me on the train - the old commuter rail into Boston. Unlike my commute last year – waiting for the bus, riding it for 20 stops to the T and then fighting my way to stand on a crowded T, where sitting passengers willfully ignored my pregnant belly – I now take the very civilized commuter rail. Even when crowded, I always get a seat, and an actual person in an old-timey uniform who doesn’t appear to hate his job takes my ticket. The ride is smooth, not jerky, and the whole atmosphere breeds occasional islands of camaraderie, in which regular commuters sit and talk about their jobs, family and vacations like old friends. Each car has a few banquets of seats which face each other, invariably populated by a group of garrulous women, some of whom pull out knitting and occasionally pictures of children, sitting as if for tea in someone’s living room. I find myself on my short commute looking at them longingly, yearning for membership to their sisterhood. Well, I think I may have my ticket. And his name is Caleb.

As “civilized” as this commuting experience can be, with pockets of downright collegiality, it is still mainly a sea of work weary adult strangers. So, when I board with a tiny baby strapped to my chest, this unexpected bundle of cuteness wakes people from their morning daze or afternoon exhaustion. Caleb and I find ourselves the epicenter of smiles rippling out as passengers are uncontrollably charmed by Caleb’s innocent look of wonder at the most mundane backdrop of our days. He reminds them of their own kids or maybe even forces them to recall that part of themselves that once found wonder in the world. Or maybe it’s just the sweet shape of his face that awakens some primal part of themselves hard wired to fall in love with babies. Something about him just breaks down human walls. We all find ourselves smiling at him. And then each other.

I’ve had more conversations with others – sometimes brief, but always warm and sincere – in the 2 days I’ve commuted with him than the previous 2 months. I just love the way he can do that. It’s not that we all throw our cell phones out the window, join hands, singing Kumbaya. But it does allow a chance to briefly strip down our blinders and find a spark of joy and connection in a place that’s otherwise defined mainly by the paradox of physical closeness and emotional distance. Thanks little Caleb.

Why write?

So, why do this exercise in the first place? Partly, because I’m bored, and, for me, being bored is close to a form of torture. I can be idle for only so long before my “monkey brain,” – an apt image from yoga class – turns against me. I start down a path of introspection and self scrutiny which only leads me to conclude that I’m wasting me life – likely because of whatever was causing the boredom in the first place. Basically, I’m most alive when I’m engaged in something and a neurotic zombie when I’m not.

But why write? I think it stems from this desire to create something. Something mine. My ideas and way of molding them together. Plus, it’s just plain satisfying to put something to paper, look at it and realize I’ve captured just the essence of what was percolating around in my brain. In fact the very act of writing probably quiets and sets in order the many disorganized ideas running around in my head. It’s as if I find the truth of something that my thoughts were only circling around when I can start writing about it. I can look at something I wrote, step back and say, “Yes. That’s what I was trying to think.” But I didn’t know it, not exactly, until I wrote it down.

There’s also an aspect of art, of choreography to the whole exercise. To find the words that not only convey an idea most precisely, but to compose it in a way – through the right words set to just the right rhythm - that also evokes the related emotion. That’s art. That’s music. And I want to create some of that. Just now I have reordered some of the ideas you see here, deleted and substituted a word here and there to better capture the spirit of my meaning. It feels a bit like molding a sculpture. I sit back and see what I’ve produced, change it, and then look at it again until it’s just right. Or at least pleasing.

I want to hone this skill, to exercise this muscle and develop this discipline. I want to better communicate what I’m thinking and knowing and feeling. It can be such a lonely and frustrating feeling to have an idea trapped in your idea and not be able to express it exactly how you know it. So, I guess this is also an exercise in making connections and making myself known to myself and others.