Now here’s fair warning: what I am about to tell you is some seriously embarrassing shit about my parenting feck-ups failings. If you tend to be, well, a judgemental poo-poo head, then get lost. This post is not  for you. If, however, you’re the type who reads about someone else’s parental loser-ness and feels ”holy-hell-I’m-so-glad-that’s-not-me,” and somewhat sympathetic then stick around. This post will undoubtedly make you feel like a better parent than I. I’m happy to provide this service because, frankly, I don’t give a shit right now. I’m just so proud of my boy that I could spit (in your eye if you dare judge).

So, just with this picture, you might gather where I’m going with this. If you’re guessing that this is a post about (Gasp! Look away in disgust! Gasp again!) my four and a half year old drinking from a bottle, then (ding ding ding!) you’re right!

That’s right, folks, you read it properly: my son, up until (Hallelujah!) 2 days ago, was going to bed with a bottle full of warm milk. And, (are you ready?), he would suck on it all night, empty. Oh, do you want me to hold on for a minute while you call CAS to report me? Patooey. Be my guest.

I haven’t gone into great detail here yet about our struggles to get LIttle Man to sleep at night. Honestly, I’d rather try to forget it than rehash it again and again and again. It gives me goosebumps and gets my stomach churning, just to pass over those days in my mind. And yes, there were many, many  of those days. And nights. Basically, for the first 2.5 years of his life, Little Man only slept for about 3-4 hours at a time, uninterrupted. He took forever to fall asleep at night and had frequent night-wakings, mixed in with a lot of illness and night terrors. Oh, and nap? What the feck is a nap, anyway? I still think those are an urban myth created by, and perpetuated by parenting experts, knowing that new moms everywhere will continue to buy their useless books.

We fought it tooth and nail. It’s a wonder neither Hubby nor I were committed to an institution (voluntarily, if we’d been smart, really) during the first three years of LM’s life. Neither of us got much sleep, we were on edge all the time (torture will do that to a person-who knew?), and it felt like nobody understood what we were going through, because, well, they didn’t.

Woefully one day, I sobbed on an old friend’s shoulder (big, heaving, ugly sobs, people!), telling her that I thought it was quite possibly in Little Man’s best interest if I just ran away from home and left Hubby on his own to parent him, because I simply couldn’t do it any more. I couldn’t take it. The sleeplessness, the screaming-that-just-won’t-stop, kicking against my stomach and back arching away from my embrace, were, honestly, killing  me and killing  what little spirit I had left.

I had no idea where else to turn. I’d begged doctors for help, I’d attempted to muster some sympathy or understanding from some friends with “normal” babies, and the worst effing part of all was that I couldn’t even call my mommy for support because she had been ripped from my life when I most needed her. So I laid it all out for this friend to see. I told her that I was about to give up and either find a cliff to jump from (remember, I tend to exaggerate a smidgen at times) or take up heavy drinking (which, if I’m honest, means about a glass and a half  of wine – drinking is pretty much the only part of my life where I’m cheap), because I literally could not take this life for another minute.

You know what my friend asked me? I’ll tell you (and no, she didn’t ask me if I’d ever considered kissing a girl!)… It went something like this:

“Kia, why the feck don’t you just try giving him a bottle of milk in his bed with him?”

“But. But. But. The books. And the experts. And the dentist. And my fecking mother in law from bloody hell. Oh, and the experts. And the people. What would the people  think?”

“Kia, don’t be such an ass-head. Give him the bloody bottle. Put some effing whiskey in it if you have to (It’s OK!!! I didn’t HAVE to!), but you’ve got to get this kid to sleep because I need you to stick it out in this parenting gig if only so that I can look at you and feel better about myself  as a parent. Kia, you must!!!”

“But. The people. They’ll think…”

“Kia. Give it up. You’re never going to win any parenting awards now anyway, so what have you got to lose?”

“Well…. that does bear some logic. Somewhere…”

So that night, I put Little Man to bed withhis “baba.” And…he slept. He slept for, if I remember correctly, 5 or 6 hours straight! Hal EEE Fecking Loooooo Ya!!!!

Fast forward two more years, and up until two nights ago, not much had changed. Little Man was sleeping somewhat predictably through the night, wasn’t peeing his bed (which was a concern because of drinking so much liquid right as he fell asleep), and Hubby and I remained blissfully  married.

You have to understand something about Little Man, if you haven’t gathered this already. Actually, if you haven’t gathered it already, you need to go back into the archives and read, dammit!  LIttle Man DETESTS change. Of any kind. Unless it’s on his terms. And until it’s on his terms, you can bloody well forget even trying. Because trying to change Little Man, folks, is akin to piercing your own nipples with a dull, rusty sewing needle. Not that I’ve tried it, but I’m just venturing a wild guess.

In order to put the idea in LIttle Man’s head, we’ve been mentioning for about a year that he will soon have to consider giving up the baba’s. We’ve mentioned some bribes that we’d be willing to wager and been met with responses like this,

“It’s ok, Mommy. I’m not ready yet. I know I’m a big boy now, but I still like my baba’s. When I really want the Indiana Jones Lego set, I’ll let you know. I can wait.”

How can you argue with a) his logic and b) the fact that he’s sleeping through the night, happily, with a baba hanging from his lips and c) the terrifying memories Hubby and I still have of sleepless night after sleepless night? You can’t. People tried. Unsuccessfully. We have known that there was no sense pushing (as much as I was dyingto push) the issue. Little Man would give up the baba’s when he was good and ready.

Every so often, I’d casually mention the Lego set and the fact that, if he could show us that he could go 3 nights without the baba’s, we’d go out the next day and buy the Lego set. Then we’d decide if there was a baby we knew who he’d like to donate his baba’s to.

You can imagine my surprise when, planning out our finances and working the numbers to see if we could afford to keep LM in baba’s through college, the other night, Little Man told me he was ready.

“What the heck? Are you serious?!!! Dude, do you understand what this means?! If we go ahead with this, you’re done-zo, bud! Finis! No. More. Baba’s.”

“Yes, mommy. (What’s with the condescending tone, anyway, kid? I’m finding it a tad offensive lately.) I knowwhat it means. No. More. Baba’s. Like, duh. “

“Oh, ok then. Well, how do we do this? What do I do now?”

“Mommy… You take me upstairs, you read me a couple of books, you sing, tuck me in, and say goodnight. Then I go to sleep. It’s simple.”

“Ahem. Well, yes, I guess it is simple. Let’s do this. Upstairs, books, sing, tuck, goodnight.”

“Mommy?”

“Uh-huh, bud?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

Ahem. Not a big deal. Well, Mr.NotABigDeal is now sleeping. His third night without baba’s. We’re going shopping for Indy Lego tomorrow. Please, GOD!, please let Toys R Us still have the Indy Lego…