Am I making sense?
If I'm not, it's because there's a baby crying in the background. And with every little tear that is shed, a piece of me just crumples and dies.
Because I'm letting my babies cry.
Because there are no absolutes.
In my heart of hearts, I truly believed I would never resort to sleep training. To "crying it out."
What we were doing was not working. Not for the babies. Not for us.
For seven months, Kyle and I have dutifully responded to every cry within seconds. We have stayed up around the clock rocking, bouncing, and nursing the babies back to sleep. I don't really want anyone to know how many nights we got up every twenty minutes all night long and then dragged our exhausted selves out of bed the next morning to face the day. Sleep deprivation is scary. Dangerous.
It. Was. Not. Working.
I've agonized over this issue. Advice has been abundant. I've been terrified to do the wrong thing. And although I hate to admit it, I've been loathe to be judged.
And here I am.
Feeling confident. Feeling heartbroken. Feeling like I'm doing the right thing. Feeling the weight of responsibility that comes with really doing this right. Understanding commitment in a new way. Commitment that impacts my children.
Letting the babies cry breaks my heart. But this is ultimately not about me. It's about them. For them. Because they need sleep so that they can grow and develop. And because setting loving boundaries is our job as parents.
I would protect them from every sadness, every harm, every disappointment, if only I could.
I hate that I can't.
And I owe it to them, these babies that we have brought into this world, to be honest with myself about that.