This week, one national periodical asks if I'm mom enough.
Right now, I am listening to my dearest little bug send up every protest flare he has in his arsenal to avoid having to go to sleep in his own bed. Why am I listening? Why am I not at his side?
Because night after night for the last several weeks, the Bug wakes up at some point, calls out, I scoop him up, and he finishes sleeping in my bed. And last night, instead of going to sleep and waking up to be rescued in the middle of the night, he got right to the point. He called out about thirty minutes after my husband put him down for the night. Then he was up until 10, flopping around in my bed, until I finally stood up, rocked him in my arms, and he crashed. So tonight when he started calling out, I thought, he has to get to sleep before 10, and, clearly whatever I have been doing lately is not getting him to sleep. I cannot help him get there except to let him figure it out on his own.
So here I am.
"I have a poop in my diaper!" [repeat]
Right now, having just watched my husband change Bug's diaper on the living room floor, and having just led some sort of impromptu, amateur deep breathing exercise for Bug, I am drinking a beer while my husband does the heavy lifting of getting Bug to sleep in his own bed.
Let the judgment begin.
But don't let's stop with the judging me for having a beer right now (or for giving the hard work of the evening to my amazing husband).
Feel free to heap onto that, my failure to turn my bed into a family bed.
And onto that, my inconsistency about not co-sleeping.
While I like to think of myself as a parent who thinks (and thinks) about how to be the best parent for my babies, it is time to admit that I am winging it a lot of the time. Which is probably not good enough for Dr. Sears or for Dr. Sleepensleep, but I am praying it's enough for Bug and Squish.