I have created a melancholy, isolated environment for my child, a setting which seems eerily similar to the moors in Wuthering Heights. My precious, innocent angel has been denied compassion and empathy, and most importantly, love. How have I stolen her childhood, you ask? By having her sleep in a crib.
My husband and I decided to do the unthinkable at her young age of one week. We selfishly tried to get some amount of sleep and to teach our daughter some independence. We thought it best that she sleep in her crib, but, I now realize this decision is on par with those patrons of the ninth circle of Hell. Did I not see how detrimental I was being to my daughter’s health? It didn’t matter that I had an intense fear of rolling atop her or smothering her with a blanket whilst I slept. No. At the ripe age of 11 weeks, I have already built a sociopath because I clearly do not love. I am a monster.
I have now decided to co-sleep.
I have created a suffocating, co-dependent environment that seems eerily similar to that of Big Brother from 1984. I have created a child who will never tie her shoes on her own because I have decided it best for my family to co-sleep. My child will inevitably become a whiny, spoiled brat because I felt more comfortable with my child sleeping next to me. My fears of leaving my child in her own bed and my attempt to diminish the inconvenience of getting up to feed her are absurd. Didn’t I realize that sleeping with my child automatically means she will never fend for herself? I’ve basically become the mother who calls their child’s professor at Stanford because I know that C was at the very least a B-. Who are we kidding. My child will never leave for college. She will live in my attic because she’s too attached to me. My last name is now Bates. Shame on me for loving too much. I’m a monster.
Clearly, there’s only one option. My child will sleep with our cats. That way, she will be comforted by the love of our pets and I have my bed to myself.