...and the little one said, "roll over!"

It starts out innocently enough: a nap here, a snuggle there. Except it doesn't end. You wake up in this freaky Twilight Zone where a toddler apocalypse reins - a world where parents resemble zombies, deep shadows beneath their eyes as they walk the earth in a trance. You know these parents well. The mommy who stares off into space, pouring milk as the glass spills over. The dad who weeps at the the sight of his PJ clad tyke. Whispers of "no sex" and "lost intimacy" can be heard at Mommy and Me Baby Yoga.

That's right: CO-SLEEPING (or at least involuntary forms of it).

Hey, it may work for some families. I recognize there are several studies that cite the benefits of co-sleeping; I respect those studies and the choices such families make. It came out of your uterus, so do as you wish with your little one. No judgements here.

However, I also deeply respect the fact we're not co-sleepers, and I'm fairly certain Emma's  450 dollar IKEA  bed is a clear indication of that. Why? The hubster and I are a wee bit selfish.  We like our space. He likes his pillow, dubbed the side sleeper deluxe. I like being indecent past 10 p.m.,  quite possibly sleeping nude. I also like to get laid. He likes to roll over without fear of crushing the fruit of his loins. Emma snores, and I'm a light sleeper.  It-just-doesn't-work. Kind of like communism. Or open relationships. Or those kitchen gadgets you buy on the 2 a.m. infomercials. Or the dress that looked good on the mannequin.

And yet we're in the middle of effing co-sleeping. Where the hell is the autonomy of being Mom and Dad?

Every morning Kevin says, "We've got to do something about this." Each night we try. We follow a strict bedtime routine. Bath, pj's, reading books. We leave a nightlight on. We say 427207420874234 "I love you's," and "see you in the morning!". Somehow, like a thief in the night, Emma makes her way to our bed. She is a stealthy toddler minx - sliding in at the foot. She stalks us, her prey, making her way to the crook of my arm, holding onto my neck. Usually I don't notice, as I'm so tired from being a domestic goddess...UNTIL HER FEET ARE DIGGING INTO MY SPINE OR HER ASS IS IN MY FACE. That's right: no one tells you that your little bundle of joy can, whilst sleeping, perform positions and gravity defying acts that put Cirque du Soleil to shame.

So, like the responsible (and semi selfish) parents we are, we purchased  a a child-proof doorknob; basically some cheap ass plastic thing that covers the doorknob so your kiddo can have their own personal Alcatraz. Awww : - )

EXCEPT IT DIDN'T WORK. Yeah, the manufacture's of that junk didn't bother to mention if you're a (semi) responsible parent, like myself (duh), who works on fine motor skill activities with her toddler, this product is moot. Your little Einstein is soooo going to make that door handle their bitch.  Kind of like chimps, you know, with those pesky opposable thumbs. That night, I awoke to about 1/4 inch of room on my bed while Kevin was practicably crushing me with all 162 pounds of his weight. It felt like more - I swear!

Onto Plan B: A Baby Gate. We yet again made a Target run, hoping this would do the trick. EXCEPT IT DIDN'T. And here I was, all smug and doing the moonwalk in joy. This morning I awoke to my neck aching, half way hanging off the side of my bed, Emma snoring beside me, and Kevin's arm squishing my face.

How did she do it?! How did Emma get over the Legendary Baby Gate? Clearly, by day Emma is a tyrannical toddler, but by night she is Emma The Secret Sneaky Ninja Agent. Proof of my child's magical and devious powers:

 

That's right: She put the blue chair over the gate, and the used the red chair to scale the damn Wall of China to the Holy Grail - AKA our bed. So she could snore. And steal my pillow. And ensure I am a victim of the toddler apocalypse. 

Emma - 2

(Semi) Responsibly Parents - 0