I am designing a blog for a woman who wants to have a category for "parenting horror stories."  Which got me thinking, oh gee, I have PLENTY of those.  Which then led me to further thinking…about the many, many achingly sweet parenting stories I also have.  When Jane and I compared notes on the phone, we were surprised (as is so often the case with Jane and me) to find that we were both engrossed in thoughts of both the horrific and the sweet tales of parenting.   

Well, of course, those of you who know anything about Jane’s and my style know quite well that the horror MUST come first.  Plenty of time to while away the hours with all that is honey-golden and produces tiny droplets at the corners of eyes.  But first–"Oh, the white-knuckled, hands-around-the-face, Munchian terrors of learning to be…a parent!"

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LIZZIE

My two-year-old daughter stationed herself by her week-old sister’s infant seat, stroking her tiny bald head.  Awww, she looked so sweet and protective.  What a little angel.  I smiled as I walked out through the sliding-glass kitchen door to start the charcoal grill.  And here I’d been so concerned about her series of little jealous behaviors all week.  Silly me–I was just worrying too much.  Look how  she was even trying to read her favorite little Elmo book to the baby.

In my moment of complacency, I turned my back for a moment as I lit the coals.  In that moment, I heard a sickening "click"–the sound of the door lock being pushed into place.  I wheeled around just in time to see my two-year-old give me a crooked little evil-genius grin and then hunker down to "take care" of Little Sis.  The baby was wearing just a diaper and t-shirt, and the little black remnant of umbilical cord stuck out prominently–almost ready to fall off.  I watched in horror as my two-year-old began fiddling with her sister’s tender navel area.  I banged on the door with all my might.  "Open the door!  Let Mommy back in!"  Then I started screaming out treat bribes.  "A pony, a pony!  Mommy will get you a pink pony.  Just open the door!"   

The two-year-old merely looked annoyed.  I could almost see the wheels turning in her head.  "Hmmmm…Mommy just won’t leave us alone to have our fun, darling Sis.  This is disconcerting having to watch her embarrassing display of panic through the glass.  Come with me, Helpless One, and I’ll show you a good time.  Mwah-hah-haaahhh. "

Big Sis leaned over and grabbed Baby Sis by the shoulders in a jerky, awkward motion–then dragged her from her carseat, onto her belly, and out of my line of sight.  All I could see was a thin, faint trail of blood from the place where the baby’s umbilical cord was detaching.  The blood continued into the carpeted area of the next room, where it was sort of mixed in with the gray carpet lint. 

How to get into the house….safe mommy that I was, I always locked the front door.  Oh yes, I had given a spare to the neighbor not long ago!  I ran to the neighbor’s house and found her at home.  Barely coherent at this point, I begged for the key.  "Baby….belly button…locked me out…dragging her all around…BLOOD."  Got the key, ran back home, burst in the door.   A scene of sisterly "love" met my eyes.  Baby lying on the living room floor with a doll hat on her head and vinyl purse slung (rather jauntily) on her shoulder.  Blood-flecked, fuzzy navel notwithstanding, she really looked okay.  I exhaled and swooped in to grab the baby off the floor.  "Oh, HI Mommy"  Blue eyes wide, voice innocent.  "It’s a fun party!"   

JANE

Ah, the horrific tales we can all tell from those baby years… My firstborn has never been much of a sleeper.  To this day, and he’s now in elementary school, he is just one of those people who require less down time than many of us.  Even as a newborn, his uncle, father of five little boys, called him the "amazing never goes to sleep baby".  As the months went on, he rarely slept more than three or four hours at at a time… By the time he was over a year, you can imagine how desperate I was to rectify this situation.  I’d always shunned the cry it out methods, I was one of those baby-led, baby-centric parenting parents.  (oh, if only I knew then what I know now… )  But eventually I caved.  Landeau was on board.  Something had to be done.  

Our plan was pillaged from various "sleep training" methods.  Put him down, pat him on the back, leave the room.  Let him cry.  15 minutes later, come in, pat him on the back, leave.  25 minutes after that, same.  Increase time between going in.  All the books said he’d be asleep in about an hour, and each night it would take less and less time, less pats on the back.  Okay, we were all set.  

After the first hour, we agreed it might be better to not keep going in.  The crying was unbearable - what parent can stand to hear their little baby (okay, he was closer to 18 months than the recommended 8…) cry and cry.  In the hopes of not hearing the screams quite so ear-piercingly, we turned on the dishwasher.  Two hours in, we did a load of laundry. Eventually,  we sat out on the deck.  In December.   Drinking.  

Still, we persevered.  After three hours, we knew we were in for a penny, in for a pound.  To cave in now, to go in and actually comfort our screaming boy, which we ached to do, would render the past few hours a waste, a failure.  It was horrible, we felt terrible.  We needed to go in and pick Ringo up, to smother him in hugs and kisses, to reassure him we’d never, ever abandon him again, never subject him to such misery, even for our own (selfish and horrible) quest for sleep.  We didn’t do it.

FOUR HOURS.  No kidding, four hours.  No book, no website, ever ever mentioned four hours.  I was in tears.  Landeau was anxiously pacing.  I was cruel, a horrible mother.  Landeau was a sadistic father.  Surely someone would call the Department of Family Services on us.  

And then… suddenly… silence.  We stared at one another.  Could it be?  We were afraid to check on him, lest we wake our miserable and surely exhausted boy.  10 quiet minutes went by.  15.  20.  Ever so silently, on the tippiest of toes, we crept in to peek.  There he was, our adorable Ringo.  Sitting up, legs sticking through the crib rails, fingers still white-knuckling the same rails in a jailhouse death grip.  Head slumped back.  Asleep.  

And as much as we wanted to capture the moment with a picture,  we didn’t.  For fear of waking him, of course.  Not that we need a picture.  The image of Ringo, sitting up in his sleep, gripping the crib, defeated, is burned in our memories forever.