Sleep consultants are taking advantage of us

I had the misfortune of birthing not one, but two babies who just could not slumber for longer than two hours at a time. It almost killed me.

Until you yourself go through the throes of sleep deprivation it’s impossible to understand the sheer torture, desperation, and panic it instills. You get to the point where you actually fear falling asleep, because you know you’ll only be woken up again and the horror will begin all over again.

I tried a lot of things to make it better. I read a lot of books, surfed the internet for help, despaired to my GP. But I’ll tell you what I didn’t do: hire a sleep consultant.

Firstly, I didn’t have hundreds of dollars to blow on an initial consultation, let alone thousands of dollars for a full “sleep training package”. I find it astonishing (and, frankly, gross) that there are folks out there legitimately charging hundreds of dollars an hour to tell you what I’m about to tell you now. Secondly, I think the whole “sleep training” industry is a money-grab taking advantage of sleep-starved parents so desperate for relief that they’d do anything just to get some shut-eye.

You want to know how to sleep train? Here it is: You put the kid in the crib, say goodnight—and that’s it. You wait. They cry. You cry. And it is brutal. Oh sure, there are plenty of different “approaches”, with their own cute little acronyms (CIO, PIPD, etc). But listen: it’s all the same shit wrapped up in a different bow.

You can sit in the room while they scream until they (or you) feel like puking. You can leave the room and pop in and out at regular intervals while they scream until they (or you) feel like puking. You can slowly creep out of the room, bit by bit, over the period of week. You can just leave and not come back at all until they stop (or puke).

That’s what worked best with my first kid, who screamed for 45 minutes the first night, 20 minutes the second night, 5 minutes the third night, and started sleeping through the night after the third.

Or, if they’re still screaming three hours into it, you do what I did with my second: you give up. You take them into your bed, lie down with them, let them use you as a human soother, and adapt to sleeping with one boob in a tiny person’s mouth.

What you don’t do? Pay an unprofessional, unaccredited, unlicensed person to tell you to essentially ignore the kid until they nod off.

Sleep trainers do not have a degree in sleep. They’re not neurologists. They’re not psychologists. They’re not counsellors. They’re not medical professionals. They don’t need a license to call themselves “sleep trainers”. They don’t even have to take a course (although some private institutes will sell them).

But they WILL charge you the kind of fees that make you think they do.

The widening gulf between parental intentions and parental reality

There are two parallel universes of parenting: the type of parent you plan to be—and the type of parent you end up being. One type is characterized by good intentions, idealism, bountiful, endless love and affection. The other, not so much.

As the global pandemic rages on and the kids hit the tween years, the gap between these two universes is stretching into an ever-widening chasm filled with regret, self-recrimination, and a shit-ton of guilt. 

So, in the spirit of oversharing, here are some of the sliding door moments of my parenting life:

THE PLAN: Establish clear boundaries, and stay firm. No means no.
THE REALITY: Give in more often than not, as having to endure endless whining, tantrums and tears is often more than I care to take on. My momentary peace and serenity is apparently worth more to me than my kids’ moral and behavioural development. 

THE PLAN: Only sugar-free snacks, whole-grain breakfast foods, and very limited (if any) juice on hand. Pop/soda doesn’t even enter the picture.
THE REALITY: In an effort to have kids actually consume their packed lunches, send them to school with those “fruit-juice gummies” (real fruit just comes straight back home again), yogurt drinks, and jam sandwiches. Bribe them to complete their homework with the occasional 7/11 Slurpee. Give quiet thanks for husband’s dental coverage plan.

THE PLAN: No screen time on school days, and no more than one hour on weekends.
THE REALITY: Kids take over my phone, iPad and laptop in order to both online with friends while simultaneously chatting on video and speakerphone. I hide in the kitchen drinking wine and pretending to make dinner. 

THE PLAN: Have sit-down dinners together as a family every night, sharing heartfelt discussions about our day, and our hopes and dreams for the future.
THE REALITY: The almost-teen starts demanding food exactly 30 minutes before I’ve started preparing anything, so he fills up on cereal, milk, and the stash of cookies I thought I’d hidden from him. The younger one sees this, and declares that he is entitled to the same. I am tied up making dinner so they they stuff their faces alone. Husband gets home and announces he’s not hungry yet because he had a late lunch. Dinner goes uneaten and becomes a cold, neglected metaphor of dejection. I sneak off into the basement and fill my emotional void with the pint of ice cream I’d hidden earlier in the deep freeze. And… scene.

Listen, I know I’m falling short. But you can’t say that I don’t have good intentions, or that I don’t know better. I do.

I just don’t always achieve better.

Was Jane Goodall a bad(ass) mama?

What if I told you there was this internationally renowned woman, practically worshipped by just about everyone for her groundbreaking work combining zoology, psychology, empathy, and environmentalism that made us all rethink what we know about sentient life…….but who stuck her kid in a cage for hours, in the middle of the African bush, presumably deprived of playmates and peers?

Who is this astoundingly accomplished woman who also sounds like a mother from hell?
JANE MOTHERF-ING GOODALL!

And no, I’m not making this shit up. Badass Jane, who spent decades observing wild chimpanzees in Tanzania, not only had a baby out there, but, in her words, dumped him in “a sort of cage, which we built. But you could stand upright and walk across it.”

Why the cage? Because of the murderous chimps rampaging about. Oh, but don’t worry: “He couldn’t even crawl. So it was almost like a giant cot. And he was never on his own. He was never left even for five minutes without somebody in the room with him,” Jane explains, adding, “And I never left him one single night until he was 3 years old.” Eventually, Jane and her then-husband, photographer Hugo van Lawick, sent their son—whom they nicknamed “Grub” (no comment)—to boarding school in England to get educated.

Okay, I’m really not dunking on Jane Goodall here. In fact, by all accounts, “Grub” aka Hugo, turned out to be a happy, well-adjusted adult and father, working as a boatbuilder and supporting his mother’s work in Tanzania. And yeah, while he appears to have had some residual resentment, he got over it and remains close to his mom.

So I just want to take a moment to point out how insane it is that we moms are all sitting here in 2021, worried about whether we’re participating in enough library storytimes, taking mom-and-baby yoga classes, organizing baby playdates, obsessively baby-proofing our homes, losing sleep over Montessori or Reggio Emilia, and worrying that Covid-19 masks are going to affect our kids’ language acquisition—while Jane Goodall simply tossed her kiddo into a cage, miles from civilization, hung out with sometimes violent wild animals, and sent him away to get educated to another continent like it was the most natural thing in the world. And, as far as I can tell, she wasn’t shamed for it either.

If there’s a lesson in all of this, it’s this: I figure it’s time we moms channeled a little more Jane and a little less Hilaria Baldwin before we all end up going apeshit ourselves.

Medals of valor for thankless jobs

As I cleaned out the fridge last weekend, confronting a myriad of mysterious alien lifeforms floating in briny fluids, months-old liquified meatloaf that threatened to breach its container, and hardened bits of what I can only presume was once cheese, it occurred to me that what I was doing was truly heroic—even if only in my mind. 

So, in recognition of all those unseen little acts of bravery and duty that come with the job of parenting, I present: Medals of Valor for Thankless Jobs:

The Confessional Medal of Honor: Awarded for outstanding service in breaking up sibling fights, and extracting tearful, remorseful confessions of guilt. 

The Dinner Service Cross: Presented in recognition of providing the evening meal, every night of the week, for a decade or more. Includes takeout and delivery. 

The Purple Fart: One of parenting’s highest honors. Bestowed upon a parent who, despite being assaulted by Level 5 methane emissions by their children, continues to read bedtime stories without passing out.

The Distinguished Suction Medal: Bestowed to those who have gone above and beyond the call of duty and vacuumed not just the floor, but the fields of debris between and under the couch cushions—even though no one noticed a difference.

The Sacrificed Sleep Medal: Presented to parents who continue to provide shelter and sustenance to an infant or child, despite said child ensuring they receive less than three straight hours of uninterrupted sleep for a year or more.

The Order of Laundry: Awarded for washing, drying, folding, and putting away an entire load of laundry in a single day—without any cross-contamination of pocketed kleenexes.

The Odiferous Service Medal: Awarded in recognition of outstanding duty, bravery and resilience displayed in determining the source of a stench of putrefaction, and eliminating said source—be it from fridge, garbage, or the space beneath a child’s bed.

The Distinguished Crying Cross: Presented in recognition of outstanding self-control shown by a parent who locks themselves in the bathroom to shed tears of frustration rather than giving in to the urge to sob openly in front of their devil spawn.

The Sliver Star: For the deft removal of a sliver from the foot of a child who has been repeatedly reminded not to run in bare feet over a wood chip-covered playground because they would get a sliver—without saying “I told you so.”

The UNO Peacekeeping Medal: Bestowed for sacrificing five or more rounds of UNO, successfully averting meltdowns from a competitive small child.

The Brown Star: Awarded for uncommon bravery and resilience in the safe diffusion and disposal of loaded diapers in a public bathroom.