Family Bed

Like a flier on the high-trapeze waiting to be caught in mid-air, Django often spends much of his night rolling side-to-side, swinging his arms up and over his head, back arched, eyes – though closed – locked in line with his reaching hands. It’s not near as disruptive as you might think it would be in a bed-partner. It’s more like the tide. Now he’s leaning in; now he’s leaning out. And, well, I don’t do too much sleeping these days anyway, so it can lend a welcome ebb and flow to what is otherwise a rather monotonous insomnia.

I used to think Django was searching for me in his reachings, or at least the fresh supply of warm help-me-get-back-to-sleep milk I’ve come to represent. When he’d end up cuddling the pillow on the other side of the bed, I’d usually break into a smug sort of grin – equal parts tender humor and self-importance. Then, at some point, I realized he actually seemed to prefer the pillow. He’d turn to me, and then turn quickly away. Yet once “on” the pillow, he’d stroke it gently, nuzzle a little, and usually anchor himself with a grip. Talk about feeling rejected. Yipes.

Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m an important player in the Family Bed scene. Django loves for me to be there as he falls asleep, for sure. Though I’ve trained him out of nursing to sleep, per se, he’s developed other points of attachment instead – fingers on my watchband, toes on my belt, nose in my ear. Basically, wherever he can find to be in touch, he is. As I attempt to roll away, he always rolls toward.

He also thinks I make an excellent body pillow during those waves of wakefulness that threaten to break here and there throughout the night. I’ve given myself over to that job completely. Not only is it incredibly convenient to place the whole of him right on top of my chest and roll/rock/jostle him back & forth, in the hope of avoiding actually having to stand up and be a good nighttime parent, it’s also one of the things I enjoy most about us sharing a bed. In those moments, even if only for those moments his little limbs are stuck on me like a starfish, I am immediately transformed into the Rock of Gibraltar that I always wish to be.

I’ve recently and ambivalently discovered that Django’s love affair with the pillows has been an opportunistic one. Apparently they help him roll to his belly faster than I, and present less of an obstacle between he and the edge of the bed, which seems to call to him like a Siren – if you’ll forgive my thorough bludgeoning of the ocean metaphor. I’ve come downstairs on well more than one occasion now, having heard him make just a peep or two at the end of a sleep session, to find him already headed face-first off the edge of the bed. Heartstopping, let me tell you. And the extra seconds it takes to get through my own child-proofing gates are especially long seconds.

Aunt Jenny and Uncle Steve brought the hand-me-down crib. I know I should train Django to sleep in it, for safety’s sake. But I can’t, yet. I’m not developmentally ready for him to leave the Family Bed.