A Letter from a Sleep Trained Baby

I just read this online here, and I swear to you I cried actual tears after and during reading this. It literally broke my heart into pieces. This is why I don’t believe in letting a baby CIO or believe in this form of sleep training. I just can’t participate in allowing my sweet, precious baby to cry and to miss me – especially when I am right here. It’s just so sad. As far as I’m concerned, his need to be held and have my attention and to feel secure and safe in my arms is just as important as his need for food and to be changed.

I am not bashing those who do because every parent is different – but for me, this method does not and will not work. So, maybe this means I lose more sleep than those parents who have chosen to sleep train. And maybe it means my child will rely on me more often than those who self-soothe and whose parents are more of the cry-it-out type, and to me, that’s alright. I just cannot be the one to allow the precious miracle child I waited for so incredibly long – 7 years, to be exact – to cry because he misses me, because I missed him before I even knew him – and holding him as he sleeps really is my pleasure.

If I were to allow my child to cry while I sat by idly and did nothing, it would seriously bother me, very very badly. It would give me an anxiety attack because I know he needs me. As a mother, I promise my baby to always be available for him, as long as I am alive. I just don’t see it any other way. He is my everything. All of my children are. I would stop anything in a second for any one of them. They are my world! Read on to see for yourself just how touching this letter is, and why I just cannot allow myself to be ‘that’ mom.

Dear mommy,

I am confused.

I am used to falling asleep in your soft, warm arms. Each night I lay snuggled close to you; close enough to hear your heartbeat, close enough to smell your sweet fragrance. I gaze at your beautiful face as I gently drift off to sleep, safe and secure in your loving embrace. When I awaken with a growling stomach, cold feet or because I need a cuddle, you attend to me quickly and before long I am sound asleep once again.

But this last week has been different.

Each night this week has gone like this. You tucked me up into my cot and kissed me goodnight, turned out the light and left. At first I was confused, wondering where you’d gone. Soon I became scared, and called for you. I called and called for you mummy, but you wouldn’t come! I was so sad, mummy. I wanted you so badly. I’ve never felt feelings that strong before. Where did you go?

Eventually you came back! Oh, how happy and relieved I was that you came back! I thought you had left me forever! I reached up to you but you wouldn’t pick me up. You wouldn’t even look me in the eye. You lay me back down with those soft warm arms, said “shh, it’s night time now” and left again.

This happened again, over and over. I screamed for you and after a while, longer each time, you would return but you wouldn’t hold me.

After I had screamed a while, I had to stop. My throat hurt so badly. My head was pounding and my tiny tummy was growling. My heart hurt the most, though. I just couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t come.

After what felt like a lifetime of nights like this, I gave up. You don’t come when I scream, and when you do finally come you won’t even look me in the eye, let alone hold my shaking, sobbing little body. The screaming hurt too much to carry on for very long.

I just don’t understand, mummy. In the daytime when I fall and bump my head, you pick me up and kiss it better. If I am hungry, you feed me. If I crawl over to you for a cuddle, you read my mind and scoop me up, covering my tiny face with kisses and telling me how special I am and how much you love me. If I need you, you respond to me straight away.

But at night time, when it’s dark and quiet and my night-light casts strange shadows on my wall, you disappear. I can see that you’re tired, mummy, but I love you so much. I just want to be near to you, that’s all.

Now, at night time, I am quiet. But I still miss you.



2 thoughts on “A Letter from a Sleep Trained Baby

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