Night-weaning, NPR and trying not to screw up my kids

My Peanut is sixteen months old now.* She's still nursing. A lot. At night. And I'm tired. Very, very tired. Her road to solid food and cow's milk has been bumpy because she has food allergies, so we've been super-cautious about introducing new foods to her, which means it took a while for her to have a food diet adequate for weaning at night. That, and I am a total softy who can't bear to make my baby cry. And when she doesn't get her "mook" she cries that heartbreaking cry that sounds a lot more like a baby than a toddler. Did I mention that I'm a softy?

Well, I am. I nurse and sleep with my babies. I hate to be away from them, especially at night when they're sleepy and snuggly and all that good stuff. The Pumpkin's not a baby anymore, but he got a full 22 months of nursing and nighttime snuggling before he was weaned and shipped off to his own room. The Pumpkin, of course, was a preemie, and those of you who've endured time as a NICU parent will understand without me explaining why I wasn't willing to let my heart-monitor-free baby sleep more than four inches away from me.

The Peanut, born full term and a second baby, hasn't a snowball's chance of making it to 22 months in my bed. I mean, let's be honest. A lot of the indulgences we give to a first baby simply can not be repeated when you're managing more than one kid and trying to maintain some small segment of your own sanity.

I fret over this. I fret that I am failing my baby because she doesn't get enough sleep because she won't sleep alone. On the other hand, I fret that if I force her to sleep alone the Peanut will cry herself to sleep, convinced that I don't love her, and eventually turn to a life of drugs and crime.

I also fret that I'm shortchanging the Pumpkin, who never gets a morning alone with mommy, or a chance to climb into my bed and snuggle without a nursing toddler between us. Naturally I see the possibility that these circumstances could also lead to a life of drugs and crime.

And I fret that Mr. Indulgent, so named for his willingness to indulge my whims - up to and including 40 (and counting) months of baby bed-sharing, is perhaps getting a little tired of this particular whim and - you guessed it - contemplating how much more sleep he'd get if only he lived a life of drugs and crime.

So here I am, fretting away about these things while I listen to the second hour of On Point on NPR, which is always devoted to some random artsy-literary work. Today it's an interview with Poser: My Life in 23 Poses author Claire Dederer. Ms. Dederer also was prone to excessive fretting, until she discovered yoga.

I've already discovered yoga, and what I discovered was that I really suck at yoga.

But what Ms. Dederer (oh, heck, let's call her Claire) discovered while discovering yoga is the "nobody's perfect" cliche applies perfectly to yoga. And to motherhood. And to strive to do either just right is to push away the satisfaction and even the joy that comes from each.

So.

(A little dramatic, yes? Likening night-weaning and moving my toddler to her own cozy little crib to an interruption in my quest for parental perfection... Stick with me here.)

Here's what I got and what I needed from listening to Claire: Not just permission, but a mandate to risk failure now and again. Hey, maybe the Peanut will turn to drugs and crime as a result of abrupt night-weaning at the tender age of eighteen months! But dammit, at least she won't be blaming her Stepford-wife, striving-for-endless-perfection mommy for it.

Eh, I know, it's a reach. Sometimes I just need a reminder that all this stuff that seems so big and important really is not going to screw up my kids. Any more than kids should be screwed up, that is.

*Okay, she's now almost 18 months. I edited this post for two months. I told you I'm tired!