Yes. Meth. As in that terrible-no-good-your-baby-is-gonna-end-up-passed-out-on-the-gas-station-bath-room-floor-if-they-do-it-once-drug. I am qualified to speak on this matter because 1) I have a baby and have been a parent for all of 14 months 2) last year a house in our neighborhood blew up and burnt down after a particularly dramatic meth cooking soiree. I’m not sure what more you want in credentials.
Obviously, this public service announcement isn’t directed at those who have crossed over to the dark side. Your kids are already addicts. Everything I know about rehab, I learned from US weekly…which makes a surprisingly bad parenting handbook.
For the others though, there is hope. And how irresponsible would I be if I didn’t tell everyone else the best way to parent their child? Oh, the guilt! I couldn’t live with it.
It all started innocently enough. At 13 months old, it was Lula’s very first camping trip (about 12.5 months too late in my husband’s opinion).
The first night, we arrive late evening, set up the tent, and put her to bed in a pack and play. I lie down on the air mattress beside her until she gets real sleepy. Boom. Baby asleep. I think maybe this whole “camping with a tiny human” thing isn’t such a big deal…or perhaps I am a rock-star.
Before I have time to sew on my merit badge for “Excellent Putting Baby To Bed In A Tent” skills, she starts fussing. It’s now much colder than the internet told me it would be, which is odd, because I can’t think of anyone more trustworthy than an internet meteorologist. After getting up once or twice an hour to search amongst her fleece bear suit to make sure all of her digits are unfrozen and accounted for, I finally decide to throw her in bed between us. Mainly because I feel it would be hard to explain how not only is she missing half of her heart, but then mommy let half her fingers freeze off too.
Baby bear’s first taste of all night long cuddles from both sides. As she burrows in for more snuggles, an enraptured look settles on her face. Not unlike the look she’d have if she took a huge puff off her trashy neighbors meth pipe. I suppose her face could’ve been different, as I’ve not actually seen anybody smoking meth…but I HAVE seen the teeth that come along with such an endeavor, and man, it must feel exceptional to tolerate dentition like that.
It doesn’t take a Breaking Bad fan to find out where this goes. The second night, we try to get her to go bed for a lengthy time…I worry the sheriff is going to show up because someone reported we’re roasting our child over the campfire. Because no one warned us about enabling addicts (thanks for nothing internet), into the middle she went.
At this point, I am getting some good cuddles in. I can almost see why people do this all the time. It’s like sleeping with the cutest, most cuddly stuffed animal in the world…except “it” is alive and “it” is not an animal and “it” is your child, whom you will kill if you turn over and flop your body just a few inches too far.
Besides waking up every so often to make sure I wasn’t laying on top of her, or that the covers weren’t completely suffocating her, or wondering how much carbon dioxide she was breathing in and how that was affecting her pulmonary arteries, and if her pulmonary arteries were small enough to classify her as having “pulmonary hypertension” per se, and if so, does the probable miniscule amount of extra CO2 she’s breathing in, even have an effect? Besides all that, the night was incredibly restful.
By the third night, the pack & play’s only job is to pretend to be a really big clothes hamper. Which only rubbed the realization of all the laundry I get to do afterwards into my “I can’t get my baby to go to sleep..therefore I am not sleeping” wound.
I have no will to fight so Lula and I cuddle up and go to bed. The addiction has officially put a wedge in our marriage air mattress. Justin is now sleeping outside on the hard ground after an evening of drinking my wine and eating my s’mores. Lula decides sleeping in the same bed with me isn’t quite enough…I must be cuddling her *just* right. Despite the bear suit she wears, I’m convinced I actually have Goldilocks in my bed.
We spend the fourth night at a friends house (we’re still friends, right?) and at 12am, Lula wakes up (the whole house) and acts like Walter White just gave her a free sample and dances around the bed…for two hours.
We get home and I hit up every single C0-sleeping Anon group I can find. I scour the internet for remedies. Turns out, there isn’t any advice column on “what to do when the happiest baby on the block meets Walter White”. Hence this post. My best advice would be to not do it in the first place…if you got yourself into predicament follow my directions below.
1) Bose noise canceling headphones. 2) Bottle of wine. 3) Repeat number 2 if needed.