She is a part-time co-sleeper. More full-time than part-time when she’s teething or going through a rough patch, or it’s Sunday. She likes to be in our bed the night before I go to work outside the home.
Sometimes this means that she wakes up a lot earlier in the morning, when Josh leaves for work. And for the record, 5am is not morning, it’s still night in my book. But we get up anyway. Sometimes it means that she comes in to our room in the middle of the night. Or that she wants to go to sleep there at the beginning of the night.
It always means that I’ll end up being kicked, punched, slapped upside the head and sometimes even have my skull cracked by her surprisingly hard little head. Sometimes she head-butts my nose and I see stars. When I’m really hurt, she cries too.
But it’s not something I put up with, or lack the ability to change, or even just accept.
My baby stands in the hall way. She jabs both fingers in the direction of our room. She looks up at me with big eyes. I say yes, happy that she finds so much comfort in the big bed. I treasure the fact that she can ask for what she wants. She excitedly runs towards the room, climbs into bed and nestles into the pillows to sleep. She grins at me before rolling over.
‘Mummy’, ‘mummy’. I see her head peering over our bed in the dark. I pull her up. She can climb up on her own, but not if Josh is sleeping there. Her hands and arms squeeze my neck and she presses her chubby cheek to mine before we drift off together. Often I think that if I had never co-slept I would have missed out on my life.
Sometimes as she’s drifting off, she smiles at me as her eyes get heavy. Sometimes she lifts her hands to touch my face. Sometimes she snuggles up until she is lying on my chest. Sometimes she giggles in her sleep.
Always, she is welcome.
And sometimes, I go in and get her when she is sleeping soundly in her bed. And I am grateful.
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My name is Zoey. 






























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