The combination of separation anxiety and the sleep regression that will never end has officially put the fear of God, or at least, whomever willed it that I would have a child still in my bed when I am soon to have another child in my bed.
All this from a person doesn't really love having any children in her bed. And from a child who was, by far, my best sleeper.
Sweet, torturous irony.
I opened the section of my favorite sleep book for parents to the section on the 18-22 month sleep regression and I swear it said "Sleep train your 2-year-old? YOU HAVE LOST YOUR FRACKING MIND."
And really, anything you read about this time in a toddler's development can be paraphrased down to: "Stick it out, sucker."
For awhile, I was freaking out - desperately trying to get her to at least sleep on her own mattress on our floor, hoping the now vacant trundle in Quinlan's room that was occupied by her brother up until last week when he moved back into his own room would entice her.
No such luck.
Instead, she would just scream her bloody guts out, keeping everyone else in the house awake.
So I've resigned myself to laying with her in my bed until she falls asleep, then moving her to her own bed, and then bringing her back into mine when she wakes up screaming at 2am because the two feet between us is too damn far.
I suppose this is all reorienting me back into newborndom, since I'm waking up every few hours to turn her around or cover her up.
The only difference is that my boobs are well rested and I'm not changing diapers in the dark.
Hers or mine.
If there's anything I've learned over the last six years is that there will always be battles. I've just got to choose which ones I'm willing to fight and the ones where I know I'm going to win.