The Transfer
(A prose poem about the trials of sleep training).
It is 8:19 p.m., an hour and nineteen minutes past your bedtime. Seemingly asleep, your tongue forces a pacifier out (the one you were given at birth). I now prepare to drop you in your crib and run (it is more a forgiving ritual, I just visualize it as abandonment).
The lady on TikTok says to hold you to my chest, dangling over the crib railing, until we collide with the mattress. I am three months postpartum and absolutely not that flexible. Regardless, I coddle your limbs to my chest. She pushes for me to follow her for more “mom tips and tricks.”
As I bend forward, I cannot help but remember when, in my belly, you would rest at red-eye Cinemark showings of shootouts and car crashes. When you would dream with the cheapest and loudest milk steamer in the world next to you. And, right before a solid stretch of newborn sleep, you would show the same swollen eyes and pouty lips of your bàba. I reminisce on when you would sleep through each transfer.
Now, you collide with the mattress. Wriggle. Shake your head. You go on strike for your imaginary baby guild, in which you serve as acting baby president. The guild derived from my needing to justify, in any way, your waking every hour of the night. Protest.
My son, a predetermined activist for an undeterminable (yet, admirable) cause, writhes into the fetal position and cries out. Freedom of baby speech. You look at me like I am a horrible mom, and, at times I question why your disdain for me is so natural, like I birthed it into you. Should I consult the TikTok lady?
It is 11:43 p.m., and I have come to the conclusion that I do prefer your company, regardless of any resistance. My son likes me, and I like him so much I will wait with him until he doesn’t need me. The night continues. A college-age manchild revs his junkyard truck. I express that I hate him, apologize for using the word hate, and correct with strongly dislike or do not agree with him. I hate censorship.
Sleep as my grandest commodity, we co-sleep, no need for transferring anymore. Each night is postponing an instinctual surrender from sleep training. Apparently, certain babies do not find cribs (separation) functional. My blanket compresses us into one warmth. You squeeze my cheek, and only in cases of close sleep proximity, I watch you doze off slowly, cozily, your body falling like warm syrup.
In these moments, I feel discouraged and elated, rewarded for giving up. Tomorrow, I will swear I saw dreams start in your eyes before you settled into them. When dreaming, you gasp and grin like you suddenly understand this world. Who am I to deprive you from your little life, being safest here.
Painting: Mother and Child Sleeping in Bed by Joaquin Sorolla