Last night, I slept with a baby (well, toddler). And the night before. And, let's face it, the prior 981 nights too. I have kept R.J. in bed with me since the first day in the hospital--and the nurses didn't complain. When I first brought him home, I tried. I would swaddle him, place him carefully in his crib, and watch him drift to sleep.
For the next 3 hours, I would jump from bed every 15 minutes to place my hand on his chest, to watch him smile softly in his sleep, and to assure myself that all was right in the world. I ran out of gas in a week. When I sputtered to a stop, I took my baby, tucked him in my arms, and together we drifted into dreamland.
I went back to work with R.J. was 4 months old. Because he slept with me, we all got sleep. When we got ashamed and tried to be "normal," we were all exhausted, short with each other, and hostile toward the world. "Dysfunction:" "abnormal or unhealthy interpersonal behavior or interaction within a group."
Dreamland is getting crowded. He kicks. And he carries on entire conversations in his sleep: "I don't wanna eat pasta!" "Brooom, broooom, he say he gotta nodder!" (He loves "Cars"). He periodically does a mommy check--reaches out in the night to honk my nose ("hoooonk!") or squeeze my arm (just to make sure I'm there). He has an entourage.
But, we all rest. And, in the morning, he wanders out of bed--big haired and sleepy eyed--and says, "I sleep well. You sleep well?"
I go to work. I play legal logic games all day and so does my husband. We eat dinner together and play cars with R.J. at night. And, when bedtime rolls around, the inevitable question (or demand--he is two, after all): "Mommy?" "You gonna sleep here."
"Functional:" "performing or able to perform a regular function." And we do, every day.
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