I've been trying for weeks to get Margot out of our bed.
I had the whole "well, I'll probably never have a baby sleeping next to me ever again *sniff*" nostalgia for about a New York minute, and then I wanted our bed and my boob back.
But since the extra-slash-guest room is on the first floor, kicking Margot out of the bed meant doing a complicated shuffle that would land Drew in Quinlan's room.
And the prospect of giving him the ability to freely roam a room which would no doubt steal his nap along with my sanity scared the living shit out of me.
So, the only other option was to put Margot in our closet.
When my husband first suggested it, the idea of putting her in the closet sounded completely absurd. We have a fairly large house and so it seemed sort of wrong that we couldn't find a room for her.
But after a solid week of her sleeping while attached to my boob for the entire night, I decided that to the closet she must go. So I hooked up the rain machine, I dragged the playpen smack dab in the middle of my closet, and sprawled out on my bed while watching television for the first time since before I had her.
Freedom. Sweet sweet freedom.
Except that I quickly remembered that when she cried, I'd actually have to do more than pop open my bra; I'd have to get out of bed, pick her up, and lean standing up against my shelves while she nursed.
Perhaps if I had a closet like Carrie in the Sex and the City movie I could move my glider in there, or hell, even a kitchen chair, but alas, I was stuck rocking her back and forth between my husband's flight suits and his shoe hanger.
The first night I did that four freaking times.
On the plus side, closets are dark - so no aluminum foil windows or weird vinyl window coverings that drive slightly OCD husbands completely insane trying to apply. And with the bathroom between us, as well as a couple of doors that we can close, we're able to let her whine it out on those instances when she doesn't necessarily need to eat. Of course, I've yet to determine which ones those might be exactly.
So ironically, I'm not sure I'm getting any more rest than I was with her in the bed. Well, yet at least.
And instead of doing the co-sleeping "talk of shame," I get to tell everyone that my daughter is sleeping in my closet.