As I’ve mentioned in a previous blog, I’ve been reading the No-Cry Sleep Solution by Elizabeth Pantley. Basically, it’s a book for building a plan to help your baby sleep longer periods at night and learn to go back to sleep. This is done without ever having to use the “cry it out” method. I finished the book tonight and oddly(I say oddly because often books like this are dry and a struggle to get through) found it to be an enjoyable read. The author wrote in a very casual voice and included a lot of anectdotal stories, quotes, and pictures from her test case mommies. I’m sure I enjoyed it even more because the author showed a thinking similar to mine and made me feel better about some of the choices I’ve made for parenting (such as co-sleeping and not forcing Brianna to cry it out and letting her go at her own pace).

In any light, in the first few chapters, the author discusses why she is NOT a proponent of crying it out and was not able to use it with her (four)children and why she would not recommend it to others. She quoted a number of well known “authorities” on child care, including Dr. Sears. But she also included a passage from an anthropology volume written by Jean Liedloff in 1977. Regardless of my feelings on the subject, I thought this passage was incredibly vivid and so rich with imagery. I tried to read it aloud to Josh but couldn’t even make it through the tears choking me. But I think that has some to do with mommy hormones and lack of sleep šŸ˜‰ Anyhow, it’s been almost a week since I read this passage and it’s stuck with me for its descriptiveness, so I had to share.

This passage is Copyright of Jean Liedloff, from The Continuum Concept (1977) describing a baby waking in the middle of the night:

He awakes in a mindless terror of the silence, the motionlessness. He screams. He is afire from head to foot with want, with desire, with intolerable impatience. He gasps for breath and screams until his head is filled and throbbing with the sound. He screams until his chest aches, until his throat is sore. He can bear the pain no more and his sobs weaken and subside. He listens. He opens and closes his fists. He rolls his head from side to side. Nothing helps. It is unbearable. He begins to cry again, but it is too much for his strained throat; he soon stops. He waves his hands and kicks his feet. He stops, able to suffer, unable to think, unable to hope. He listens. Then he falls asleep again.

Sniff. I’m going to snuggle my little monkey now. My heart hurts.

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