Trading success for fleeting mommy time

I bagged on the sleep training. Well, more accurately, I bagged on the results of the sleep training, because by the third night, Zeke rolled over and went to sleep without any fussing as soon as I put him down.

But I was miserable. I discovered that I don't give a shit about my kid being sleep-trained at three months old. What I want is to still have that time every night when we sit in the rocker and he snuggles into my arms and relaxes against my body and goes to sleep.

Not all aspects of caring for such a young baby are loads of fun. He's smiling and cooing and responding to me now, so we'll play on the floor and he'll giggle and grin and it's awesome. But other times he'll fuss and I won't know why, and it's stressful. And it's exhausting to be so utterly needed by another human being. When my husband is needy and it gets on my nerves, I can tell him to sack up and quit bugging me. But my son needs me for every aspect of his life, and no matter what mood I'm in, no matter how tired I am, I have to tend to him and I have to be sweet and loving and protective, because to take out my tiredness or grumpiness on him would be monstrously unfair. And most of the time, I'm in a good mood and it's fine, but sometimes I'm not in a good mood, and I just have to get over it.

But bedtime is always my favorite. I never mind bedtime. Because before bedtime, he has a bath, so when we settle into the rocker, he's all sweet-smelling and gorgeous. And he's wearing cute little footie pajamas and looking so little and adorable and perfect. And he fits against me just so -- we always arrange ourselves the same way. He lies with his head in the crook of my left arm, resting his face against my chest with his legs draped over my lap. I'll brace his back with my left hand, and cradle his butt with my right. He lets his right arm drop under my arm and sometimes he'll rub my back with his hand. His left hand, always, always, is either resting on my boob or he reaches up into my shirt and nestles his hand right into my cleavage (the men in this family are all breast men, and I guess Zeke is no different). And I rock in the chair and pat his butt and rub his back and kiss his forehead, and he melts into me in a way that makes me miss it even as it's happening, if that makes any sense. Because I know that it is such a short time in his life (i.e., now) that he will be this small and this vulnerable and this willing to surrender himself to me so completely, and I don't want to waste any of it. All too soon it'll be pouting and wiggling out of my arms when I try to snuggle him and "nooo, mommy, I can do it myself."

So the sleep-training theorists and proponents can all go piss up a rope for the time being. I know I'll need them eventually, but for now, I'm going to baby my baby while he lets me, and take as much time in the rocker as I can get away with.