The seven words you should never say to a sleep-deprived parent

Before becoming a mother, I imagined bedtime with kids would be like an episode of The Waltons. All my little angels tucked into bed with polite goodnights ricocheting around the house. “Goodnight, John Boy.” “Goodnight, Mamma.”

Unfortunately, the Waltons were f---ing liars. The only sounds that bounce around my house are slamming doors, shrill cries of “I’M NOT TIRED!” and the thud of my own feet as I march between bedrooms. Our sleep routine falls apart quicker than shortcrust pastry. In fact, sleep, my lack of it, other people’s opinions on it, and my children’s excuses not to do it, have ruled my life since I first heard that newborn cry.

Finding time for sleep as a parent with young children can feel impossible.Credit: iStock

Before I had my first child, I couldn’t understand why a baby’s sleep was so important. It’s not like they had to get up for work in the morning, were going to miss a flight or had an important meeting with a mortgage broker. Who cares if they sleep or not?

When my son George was born, I was blasé about routines. He was like a uni student for the first six weeks, only waking to eat and stare at ceiling fans. Just a little pink blob in a knitted hat. I made confused expressions as the other mums complained about “the nights” while my little gnome snoozed in his car capsule beside me. A friend once made me poke him awake, to prove he wasn’t one of those “reborn” fake baby dolls. He opened one eye as if to say, “Leave me alone. I’m not ready to be out yet, Mummy!”

Then, it happened. One fateful day, he woke up and didn’t ever want to sleep again. I paced the house at night holding my wailing boy with no idea what to do.

“You look tired, Vicky. Just give him some cough mixture.” My mum was on the phone giving me a high dose of bad advice.

“But he doesn’t have a cough.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’ll knock him out. You should take some, too. I would. You’ll both sleep like rocks.”

“I’m going to try co-sleeping. It’s what they do in Japan.”

“Dad asks if you’ve tried taping his mouth up with duct tape? That’s what he used to do to you,” she said, giggling.

“I hope you’re joking, Mum.”

“I’ve got to go, Lyn’s here with a pavlova.”

When George was six months old, I got so fed up with my parents asking, “Is he sleeping through?” that I bought a hamster feeder, filled it with formula and attached it to his cot, purely to make it look like I had found a solution. I FaceTimed them in France and filmed the contraption in the background, fixed onto one of the slats.

“Look, they have these new devices where babies help themselves to milk throughout the night.”

My parents were astonished. “Bloody genius. Why did no one think of this in my day?”

I was pleased my lie shut them up, but it didn’t actually solve my problem. That boy cried so loud for so long that his face turned as red as a tomato. I thought he might explode. Nothing I did pacified him – and I’d used the last bit of duct tape fixing my reading glasses.

I didn’t know where to turn, and everyone, including the postman, my mother-in-law, Mary from the café, and scary Jenny from the maternity unit, had an opinion.

“Never wake a sleeping baby.”

“Put him on his side.”

“Put him on his back.”

“Give him a dummy.”

“I used to swaddle mine, worked a treat.”

“Put the pram in the garden, let him get a bit of sun.”

I did put him in the garden once, but I lived on the second floor of an apartment block and the people partying in the communal area didn’t appreciate a screaming newborn interrupting their sausage sizzle.

Becoming a mum and having a baby who never slept meant guilt hovered next to me like an annoying drone, following me everywhere, buzzing just out of sight. I spent the first few years feeling like everything I did wasn’t good enough.

Maybe I shouldn’t trust my gut, maybe scary Jenny and Mum were right. Should I give him a spoonful of cough syrup and let him sleep in a drawer?

Whenever anyone saw me in those early days, pumpkin mash stains down my top, trousers on backwards, I could see they thought I wanted help. Holding a baby is a green light, an invitation for unwanted opinion. A “what worked for me” field day. There were so many ideas and tips that made no sense. Words drifted in one ear and out the other. As pointless as giving directions.

I avoided uninvited views by seeking out places where no one could find me. Basically, I did a runner. I found peace in multistorey carparks and secluded benches in deserted playgrounds, and I sat on public toilets with the door locked for longer than I needed to. It was the only way I escaped the onslaught of judgment.

I spent many afternoons walking around Aldi. I shoved the baby in a sling and wandered the aisles squeezing avocados and inspecting packets of sea salt cheese straws. I bought a jar of gherkins and a violin with its own carry case from the Special Buys section one afternoon, just because the security guard was getting suspicious.

“Do you play the violin?” asked the checkout lady.

Beep.

“No, not really.”

Beep.

“You shouldn’t let that baby sleep in a sling. I just saw an article about the dangers of those.”

Beep.

For f---’s sake. Beep.

“That’s $65.40 please. Don’t go getting overtired sweetheart, remember …”

I knew what she was going to say before it landed. “You must sleep when the baby sleeps.”

Beep.

I nearly shoved the money down her throat, the perspex wall between us saving her. Apart from being told eating pasta and having reflux would result in a hairy baby, “You must sleep when the baby sleeps” was the most annoying piece of advice anyone could give me. Not only did everyone say it all the f---ing time, it was also as pointless as trying to find a fart in a hurricane.

I could not sleep in the day. Becoming a mother had not turned me into an owl. (Although having eyes in the back of my head when they became toddlers would have been useful.) Trying to sleep in the day was a slow form of torture. I might as well have been strapped to one of those medieval racks that stretched your body – that was how excruciating it was for me.

I’d lie there, worrying about how tired I was. Every memory, failure, regret and worry floated into my head, with the sun beaming in, penetrating my soul through a gap in the curtains. I wondered if the baby was OK, if the washing was on, did I take the bins out, why did East 17 break up, what was the dog in Neighbours called? I sat up in bed googling famous labradors when I should have been resting.

Edited extract from Mumming: A Year of Trying (and Failing) to be a Better Parent (Pantera Press) by Victoria Vanstone, out April 29.

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