Every mother
has a dirty little secret.  Here’s mine:
my 6 year old sleeps in bed with my husband and I every night, with the rare
exception when she sleeps with her 13 year old sister.  Her 13 year old sister slept in our bed until
she was about 9.  I love it.  My husband claims to hate it, but I know that
deep inside, he loves knowing that her little body is safely, warmly, snuggled
between us.  And I know that for both my
girls, sleeping between us in a warm bed made them feel safe, secure,
loved.  All was right in the world when
we are sleeping together.  We did not
co-sleep with our daughters when they were infants; in fact, they never slept
in our bedroom as infants, even in a bassinet.  
I do remember once sleeping on the floor of their rooms out of sheer exhaustion and knowing that I’d have to be
right back there anyway in a couple of hours for the next round of feeding. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

It started
with our weekend afternoon nap ritual.   
Some parenting magazines advise new mothers to catch up on reading or
laundry while the kids are napping.  Not
one to accept the advice of others without my own intently vetted research to
the contrary, I spent the girls’ naptime catching up on  napping. 
We would crawl into my big king sixed bed, right in the middle, draw the
curtains and naps for hours.  Neither of
us missed a wink of sleep at night as a result of our long naps.  After we disassembled the cribs, we bought pretty
sheet sets and took great care to decorate their little nests.  But neither of them ever accepted the idea of
sleeping alone.  We would put them to bed
and turn on the nightlight -  good night,
sleep tight, and all that jazz.  Then,
sure enough, in the middle of the night we’d hear the pitter patter of little
feet down the hall, into our room, and a little nudge right in between us.  Correction: I would hear the pitter patter of little feet.  My husband rarely noticed until the morning
and then would exclaim, much to my chagrin, “When did she come into our
bed?”  The truth is, at 2 a.m. it was
easier just to shove over and a make a little room than to try sending them
back to their own beds.  No, the truth
is, I loved it.

Every mother
I know has experienced that hawk-like sensitivity to their child’s every breath
and every move.   Women who once slept soundly through a
husband’s snoring suddenly awake at any little sleep-induced hiccup or wiggle, listening
carefully for the very next breath.  When
the girls would come into our bed in the middle of the night, I would often lie
awake listening to them breathe.  It is
the most beautiful sound in the world. 
And so it began.  Rather than wake
up me or them in the middle of the night, they began to fall asleep in our bed
at bedtime. And once it began, it didn’t stop. 
The girls slept peacefully, surrounded in security and love.  I felt peace knowing that we were together
all night; husband, child and me.   There
were times when I awoke with a leg across my chest, or a mop of curly hair in my
face, but I got used to it.  So did they.

A few nights
ago, I awoke to find our small dog in the bed too.  The absurdity of the scene did not escape me
- Mommy, Daddy, child, dog, all nestled in bed, heads on pillows, in the
silence of mid-night.  Only my 13 year
old was fast asleep in her own bed, where she is every night, save for the
occasional bad dream when I’m startled awake with, “Mom! Come sleep with
me!”  (By day, typical 13 year old who
doesn’t want to kiss me goodbye at school; by night, she’s still my baby.  When she calls, I meander, sans glasses, down
the hall and into her bed, and we fall asleep holding hands.) 

Of course,
once awake, I couldn’t get back to sleep. 
I lay there, listening to them breathe, comparing the sounds of their
breaths, and I smiled.  One moment I was
thinking that there’s no place better on earth, and the next, I heard a little
voice saying, this has gotten out of control. 
I sat up in bed to observe the scene. 
The four of us fit comfortably in the bed.  But unlike the many other times when I’ve
been wide awake in the middle of the night, this night I started to think about
all the people who didn’t have a bed, let alone one filled with love.  I thought about all the millions of homeless
people worldwide and people in other countries with nothing more than a mud
floor to sleep on.  A wave of gratitude
came over me.  I realized that far from
being ridiculous, I am fortunate to have a cozy king sized bed, filled with
blankets and pillows and loved ones.  In
a few short years my 6 year old will become a preteen and she, too, will want
her space.  One day, she will think
nothing of going to sleep in her own room, barely murmuring “goodnight” before
turning out the light and turning on her IPod under the covers. 

Authors, doctors,
baby experts, neighbors, co-workers, department store salespeople – everyone,
it seems, has opinions about parenting. 
I learned long ago not to listen to all the ‘shoulds’ and to listen to
my own heart and do what's right for me and my family.  Lately, I’ve been listening to the peaceful,
quiet breathing of my child sleeping next to me in bed, and I know that for right now,
it’s right. 
Goodnight.