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I’ll hear about problems at school, answer questions on religion, and attempt to explain puberty without sounding like a seventh-grade health teacher. Unlike the conversations in the car, where I’m distracted or stressed, or the big family dinners, when everyone talks at the same time, our sleepover nights allow for uninterrupted time to tackle the Big Questions We hop in bed, talk about our days, watch lousy TV and cuddle. I work full time, and this is time I spend catching up with my daughter. I don’t know exactly how the Tuesday night sleepovers started, but it’s one So despite the fact that I once thought that a 9-year-old sleeping with a parent was a terrible idea, I have to eat my words. I shut my mouth and got back to taking care of business, and life was better for all of us, most important, our infant.
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As soon as I cracked open the first can of formula, Yet despite a large investment in a private lactation consultant and a breast pump that rivaled a Dyson DC41 Animal, I produced about four drops of milk. Before the birth of my daughter, I bragged endlessly about my plans toīreastfeed. Yet one thing remains consistent: on Tuesday nights, my husband sleeps on the couch in the living room, and my 9-year-old daughter sleeps with me.Ĭonfessing this publicly is not easy, because I’m a highly opinionated woman who has been known to change her mind on a variety of issues. Because of our unique situation (five people in a three-bedroom home, custody schedules, etc.), the sleeping arrangementsĬan get quite creative. Some 25 years later, I’m married with two teenage stepchildren and a 9-year old daughter. I quickly determined that the child’s behavioral problems were linked to the fact that he still slept with his mother. Given that I was a teenager and felt I was an expert on child psychology, After a moment of silence, the mother shrugged apologetically and fessed up: her sleeping companion was her son. When we got to her bedroom, the bed was unmade on both sides, and we stood there uncomfortably while I cringed at the thought that this rather unpleasant
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On my first day on the job, the mother took me on a tour of the house.
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The mother doted on her son, and spoke to him in a syrupy baby talk that made my skin crawl. The kid ran the show, and he got what he wanted by throwing fits, stomping his feet and pouting. The father was absent from the situation, and the motherĪppeared overwhelmed. When I was in high school in the late ’80s, I took a job baby-sitting for a single mother with a 9-year-old boy.