Sundvik is empty. Cedar will have nothing to do with his new crib. He’s made that clear by instant keening the moment he’s laid in it, as if this memory foam mattress is a bed of hot coals. Sleep deprivation has set in, as night after night the battle of Cedar-slumber has been heroically waged. Now there’s a truce. For now at least, Cedar is co-sleeping. My son Jamie, and daughter in law Deirdre rationalise this solution as normal in most cultures. “Besides”, Jamie muses, “cave baby would never have become cave man if he’d not been cuddled all night by the fire”. He points out that a crying human would have been sabre tooth bait. He concludes that our evolution as a species rests on a foundation of taking baby into the family bed. So Cedar splays between his parents, snuffling contentedly, and enjoying frequent comforting snacks all night long. Though both mommy and daddy cringe at the idea of being responsible for a moment of infant upset, they have had it. I notice a book about the no-cry sleep solution lying around now. It seems well thumbed. And are those tear stains on the cover? Deirdre admits she’s at the end of her rope. She asks plaintively, “what did you do?”

“What did I do?”, I respond thoughtfully. “ I did the same as you”. But I also told Deirdre my maternal horror story, of the night baby Jamie and I had it out on the ‘sleep in your own bed’ front. I’d been convinced by my baby doc that it was time for extraordinary measures. She recommended Ferberizing, a technique named after the pediatrician who evangelized baby training to self-soothe into dreamland. Moms everywhere know it as CIO, “crying it out”. It seems so obvious. Put baby to bed with great fanfare, and firm nighty nights. Give baby his blankie or bunny, or whatever else can be hugged for comfort. Shut the door. Endure. Do not go back in! Well, peek in to make sure the baby isn’t stuck in the crib bars or swallowing his tongue. But do not pick baby up! Following Ferber’s advice, I engaged in one long night of battle, and only one. Baby Jamie won, no contest. When hubby Ed’s alarm rang for him to get up for work, he found me huddled outside baby Jamie’s door, hugging my knees and sobbing. Even louder sobbing was coming from behind the door. Ed is no fool; he knew the jig was up. So in he went. Jamie looked up at him with puffy eyes, a face drooling with snot, and a brilliant smile. His arms shot up expectantly. “No hard feelings”, he seemed to say to me in his morning gurgles, “just don’t do it again”.

Now, Deirdre asks me for ideas, and 35 years later the memory floods back. But I also know that I gradually acquired techniques and wisdom that might be shared.

The first thing to know, I told her, is baby’s signs that sleep could be on the way. Cedar stares into the middle distance, makes bubbles, rubs his eyes, yawns. His coos morph into one syllable cries, sort of like a crow. This is the moment! Grab it! Do not say, “once I finish my coffee … or, when the laundry goes into the drier … or, when we get home …”

Sound, whether its presence or absence, is part of the secret of sleep inducement without a working nipple. It’s not quiet that does the trick, but very special noises. Though a truck’s air brakes or a siren will jerk baby out of his drift to dreamland, some cacophony is helpful. Dishwashers, stove and bathroom fans, and an air conditioner are suitably womb-like and so work wonders. Failing this, a loud and sustained SHHHHHHHHH works well. Cedar also has a taste for some of Leonard Cohen’s more lugubrious offerings, so I tuck my ipod under his head when those yawns come. If I’m desperate, I also have no shame about breaking into song, no matter where I am. Cedar’s favourite is “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do… ” but he also likes “Rock a bye baby”.  One day I listened to what this lullaby was actually saying to this innocent and was shocked at its dark tale of death in a tree. So now I stick to ragtime.

Movement is my second strategy. I’m a fan of hall walking. It’s great exercise for me and creates the same rumble as a car ride in an unstimulating car seat, facing back. Wherever you are, remember the signs. Then forget those other amusements of even a moment ago; looking at fish in the pet store, being amazed by the antics of kids on a monkey bar, Halloween displays, or the wonder of a food court. It’s time for the pedia plunge. It’s easy. You push the stroller forward as if you are getting out of the way of a Mac truck. Then you pull it back with equal verve. And don’t give up! The Buddhists say that when a chant has 108 repetitions, it settles the dharma or something mystical like that. So keep at it. Don’t be embarrassed if people around want to call 911. Still, it is best if you find a private spot for this, like a parking garage or a bathroom with the light off and fan on, or the part of a store displaying stuff no one wants. The pedia plunge is magic.

I’m sure there could be a book on just this one topic. Sleep. But that’s not my complete point. I’m thrilled to be finding my way as Ama by offering what I’m good at. I can get Cedar to sleep very often. But I also have back door ways of helping out. When I am visiting, I might get a meal cooked. I might scrub the tub or sweep the floor or fold the laundry. As I see it, anything that buys time for mommy and daddy is helpful. I wonder what other grandmas find satisfying as they pitch in?

Janet Dunnet
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