The baby can sleep in the hall
Most of the time it's not advice we need but a nudge to shift our attention
At Sunday lunch in the lovely home of a friend she told her son about advice I gave her when we were both students.
Surprised, for more than 20 years had passed, I asked: ‘Oh what was that?’ No words of wisdom stuck out in my memory. Surely I’d remember if I said something profound? Wouldn’t I?
Well, no! Anything you say can land anywhere. Your words can make a crater or dissipate like snow turning to sleet, or, they may provide sustenance, that nudge that helps a friend ease their foot off the worry accelerator.
We both were in the sticky middle of our social science degrees. She was pregnant for the first time and I’d given birth to my first child a few months earlier. I’d been lucky not to miss many classes as my son was born in the English summer. Well officially I had not missed much. I was present in the classroom at Birkbeck College, University of London, but in those months of early motherhood I often dozed. Lectures started at 6 p.m. and tutorials followed finishing by 9 p.m. I semi-joked with my friends not to wake me unless the lights were being switched off and the building was being locked for the night.
Geography professors are the kindest professors
The professors were kind, the geographers more than the sociologists, economists, or political scientists. The professor who taught human geography of North America, a grandfather, said I could bring the baby to class and space could be found for feeding. I was grateful for his thoughtfulness but the prospect of catching evening trains and tubes in and out of central London with all the baby and his paraphernalia felt overwhelming. I fondly recall a daytime meeting with the professor who taught the human geography of Western Europe and supervised my dissertation in sustainable tourism policy. We met to see how we could repair my situation - I had completed no work that term. As we spoke and plotted a path back, the baby stopped fussing. Then I noticed the professor was gently rocking the pram back and forth with his foot. An automatic response from a father of four.
Some of the best advice is unintentional
‘So what was the advice I gave you?’ I asked my friend.
‘The baby can sleep in the hall. That’s what you said.’
‘Did I? That sounds terrible.’
‘No, it was good, it helped me,’ she said.
This advice would sound appalling to many people. Surely you shouldn’t start a family if you haven’t saved a house deposit or got a dishwasher or a nursery?
As I now recall it, my college friend’s flat had a small shared entry to their place and the one upstairs. This was not where I meant her baby could sleep. I was speaking of the tiny private corridor inside their flat.
What possessed me to say that? I had to think it through to understand why.
My son had colic. He cried almost every night for 5 months, from 4 or so p.m. until one, two or three a.m. We were exhausted and he wasn’t having any fun either.
A couple of months after he was born and before college resumed I bumped into my neighbour in front of our houses. She said the baby’s crying had kept her awake. All sorts of neighbourly sounds can keep you awake in terraced houses where neighbour’s bedrooms are through your wall. I replied to my neighbour by bursting into tears.
Later that day she knocked on the door, bearing gifts of chocolates and flowers. Enclosed was an Anne Geddes card with a image of babies in flowerpots, all in a row, all crying. The card was inscribed. ‘It could be worse. Love Beryl x’
Beryl, and Richard, her husband, became vital support people. Without them I would have had to postpone my studies. For three evenings each week, between 5 and 6.15 pm, they cared for my son. I would rush into London criss-crossing the baby’s dad doing the same dash in reverse. There was no alternative, no online learning then. It’s hard to imagine now that we spent hours in the library photocopying chapters from books for our readings.
Sleep-deprivation leads to desperate measures
The toll of lost sleep mounted. We sought cures for colic, discussing it with the midwife, the doctor, pharmacist. We poured over the baby books. Every bouncing bassinet, every swinging chair, we tried. Holding the car seat in our hands and rocking that, we tried. Every twirly mesmerising toy, every colic product from Boots the Chemist, herbal potions and oils. We tried. Every piece of music that promised calm. Strict feeding routines, no routines. Swaddling him, placing him in the pram and walking him around the block, having him on the bed with us, putting him in another room, driving him around the district at night until we could no longer stay alert, then sitting in the car with him rugged up and us shivering while he slept. Knowing always that he would awaken the moment we tried to move him.
Late one afternoon he was in a bassinet on the kitchen floor as I started to prepare dinner he cried and cried, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, CRY, CRY, CRY, cry, cry, cry. I picked up a knife to chop vegetables. Cry, cry, cry, cry, CRY, CRY cry, cry, cry, CCCRRRRRY. For the merest microsecond, I had a thought. This knife could stop the crying…
There is no correct room
In time I learned to be grateful whenever the baby slept and wherever he slept. On those rare occasions when he slept for a long stretch - six hours at the farm of friends in France - always away, never at home - I’d awaken and rush to the crib. ‘Is he ok? Why hasn’t he stirred?
We gave up worrying about him sleeping in his room. There was no correct room. No perfect room. The right room was whatever warm safe place he drifted off to sleep. The other correct thing for us to do was for the three of us to sleep immediately. Eating could wait. Cleaning could definitely wait. My university assignments could wait. And wait. And they did.
Sleep could not wait.
‘Oh, we stopped reading the guilt manuals’
I couldn’t help but notice in the maze of guidelines and ‘nanny state’ directives of the lack of encouragement and support to help new parents develop confidence in making their own decisions about the care of their child.
No-one needs advice that makes us feel worse. We are highly-skilled at chastising ourselves. Yet often the people we go to for guidance make us feel inadequate.
‘Oh, we stopped reading the ‘guilt manuals,’ said that kind professor who rocked the pram back and forth.
And while I listened, measuring carefully the recommendations of the midwives and doctors it was not them up with baby at 3 a.m. I couldn’t help but notice the lack in the maze of guidelines and ‘nanny state’ directives of encouragement and support to help new parents develop confidence in making their own decisions.
Then one day, when we were almost at the end of our tether, we heard about a new possibility - cranial osteopathy treatments given by a highly-regarded practitioner in Central London, and in our suburb. It was December 23 when the practitioner first placed his hands on the baby’s head. His touch was so gentle it did not seem like it could make any change. Then he treated me too. As I walked home, I felt light of step, for the first time in months, and I even found the energy to shop for Christmas gifts. Until then, shopping expeditions had been beyond me.
That night, snow dusted the world outside our window and our baby slept through it all in his crib. As did we.
Did my friend’s baby sleep in the hallway? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. Nor does the perfect nursery. All I did for my friend that day was to help her reframe the situation. The baby would sleep somewhere. They only needed to be safe and warm. We were all people who were doing the best we could in the circumstances.
I’ve written this letter in the birthday week of that baby who cried and cried. He turned into a young man who lights up our lives. Happy Birthday Son-shine!
Love your Sub heading Marian. Beautiful writing. I cried too, listening. Ignited my mother's heart. Thank you
Marian, I loved reading this! It brought up similar memories and experiences, including the ever-crying baby and the Birkbeck evening classes. Sound advice to follow what your parental instinct tells you not what the "professionals" do. I believe my own eating problems have their root in my mother's following 'guidelines' for feeding on schedule rather than on demand. Thank you for writing this!