Cry it out

… then buy cookies for your neighbors.


We live in a one-bedroom apartment, on the second floor of a three-floor brownstone, mostly so that we can have two sets of neighbors to wake up with loud crying at 3 a.m. (or annoy by dumping wood puzzle pieces onto the wood floor at 6:30 a.m. or by making them listen to the opening number of the 2013 Tony Awards over and over and over even though it’s awesome and the singer is going to be our new neighbor and have us over for play dates all the time).

Our one-bedroom status has not lent itself well to letting Henry cry it out when he wakes up at night, because, well, he can see us. We’re right there.  And he just keeps crying. Luckily, he very rarely wakes up for no reason. It’s either a wet diaper, teething, coughing, or gas, and even a mediocre nurturer like myself isn’t going to not provide comfort to a baby in discomfort.

Well, on Tuesday/Wednesday at 3 a.m. Henry decided he wanted to come in bed with us and read The Very Busy Spider. Sometimes bringing Henry into bed for a quick snuggle puts him right back to sleep (and then right back into his bed if we don’t also fall asleep in the process), but not on Tuesday/Wednesday. He fought the back pats, the cuddles, the rocking chair, because he was up, duh, and had stuff he needed to do. Even explaining to him that his disproportionate-to-the-disappointment tantrum he was throwing was because he was tired and not actually upset didn’t work.

So we just put him in his bed and let him wail. We laid him down a few times to remind him that laying down was an option. Then continued to let him cry. And continued. Then continued and continued. Around 4:15 I heard a thunk and a whimper, then the most beautiful snores ever snored. I had to fight the urge not to dance on the bed like I was Angela Chase and I just got over Jordan Catalano.

Henry: 289. Parents: 1. We got 1!


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