In Nigeria (where I lived until I was eighteen years old) many families sleep in one room, sometimes all in one bed. Babies are often carried around all day nestled against their mamas’ backs, even if she’s frying yams in hot oil or carrying water in heavy buckets on her head. Babies learn to sleep amidst the daily rhythms of their families’ lives, swayed effortlessly throughout the tempo of the day, wrapped tightly in colorful zunnis, memorizing the feel of their mama’s skin. When I was a new mother in America, however, the guidance I was most often given was to “sleep train” my babies. To leave them alone in their cribs. To put them in a separate room and just let them cry until they fell asleep.

 I did try out this advice at first…my partner and I had our first baby when I was twenty four. I knew nothing about being a mother. None of our friends were having babies yet, so we found ourselves wading through an ever-deepening bog of isolation. My first year of motherhood was a foggy mess. I had been off my meds, not sleeping, growing further away from my partner through buried resentments, struggling throughout the day to soothe a colicky newborn, and I was intensely lonely. I tried every night to get my baby girl to sleep in her crib like all the books said I should, but she just wouldn’t. I tried with all four of my babies. But I always found myself spending hours listening to them cry alone in their cribs, while I sat slumped on the floor outside their room sobbing into my hands. I simply couldn’t endure it. So, night after night I brought my babies to bed with me. And night after night they would sleep serenely at my side. And yet, every day I struggled underneath the weight of feeling like a failure. A failure as a mother, because I hadn’t trained my children to sleep alone. 

 But the years tumbled through and my children did begin falling asleep in their own rooms. And even then, they would still sometimes crawl into bed with me in the wee hours. I suppose they felt safe there, because they would actually sleep. And I would actually sleep. And eventually I understood that answering their cries and holding them close while they slept was not something I needed to feel ashamed about. In fact, giving them gentle comfort and encouragement when they had needed it was a natural way to respond. And allowing them to sleep amidst the daily rhythms of my life—while feeling close and cared for—was a sweet gift of reassurance. There was always something strangely calming about holding each one of them. Their brown eyes were so deep and lovely that each time they looked up at me, everything melted away. Nothing else mattered.

Whatever your story may be, I hope you can find rest in knowing that by answering their cries, you are giving your littles exactly what they need: a guarantee of your presence and of your love. And please remember that you are a remarkable parent, even in the moments when you simply can’t attend to one more need and you find yourself slumped on the floor and sobbing into your hands. I hope you keep persevering, even through the most exhausting of days. These moments spent sleepless in the wee hours holding your babies are preciously fleeting. And I promise—even if it feels like forever— sleep will come. 

This project has been so very long in its making stages that it’s a bit surreal to actually hold a hard copy in my hands. Written years ago when I was still a young, sleep deprived mom of only three little hellers, rewritten just for fun when Four came along, and years later came to life when One painted its images on scraps of watercolor pages. Lovingly designed and laid out by my sweet sister-in-law, these treasured pages are priceless to me. And I’d love to share them with you. 🖤

To purchase, please visit

https://shop.ingramspark.com/b/084?params=P9Z7aBPVqW6j3EOiys8HWvobxIoUaJhCevjkxpThMm1