The swaddle gods, they are laughing. Oh, how they laugh.

I have endeavoured to overcome; I have given up; I have endeavoured again. I have given up again. I have embraced the swaddle, I have cursed the swaddle, and I have embraced the swaddle again. I have foresworn the swaddle; I have crept back, meekly, to the swaddle’s embrace. I have been utterly defeated by the swaddle.

I AM THE SWADDLE’S BITCH.

The swaddle, as a babycare tool, has been like crack: immediately and completely satisfying, but requiring increasingly intense application to maintain its effects. As I’ve recounted, repeatedly, the swaddle, she works wonders… until Baby figures out how to defeat the swaddle. Then there is much handwringing and agonizing over WHAT THIS MEANS: has Baby outgrown the swaddle?Is she trying to escape the swaddle? Is it time to de-swaddle? So we try to achieve sleep without the swaddle. We fail. There are tears. Baby will not go to sleep without the swaddle. So we redouble our swaddling efforts. And so on and so forth.

There have been a few brief but glorious moments of swaddleless sleep recently. Keyword: BRIEF. Three naps, one fully unaccessorized, two in a sleep sack. This was cause for hope: Baby can sleep unswaddled! But then, as always, regression…

Today, two attempts to reclaim the glory of the swaddleless sleep failed spectacularly, ending in much remonstration by Baby to the effect of how dare you lay me down to sleep completely exposed to the world? How can you leave your little baby naked, prone, vulnerable? What kind of monster is Mommy? WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?!?!

Or, in English, WAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAAaaaaaa?!? WAA waa waa WAA.

This resulted in complete relapse to the swaddle, effected as tightly and securely as possible. Which did, happily, thankfully, bring about the sleep.

How gratefully I tiptoed into the room to check on her, nearly an hour later. Only to discover Baby COMPLETELY UNBOUND from the waist up, swaddle blanket crumpled around her chubby little knees, staring up at me, her big dark eyes asking:

What were you expecting?

Shoot me now.

Originally posted at Her Bad Mother, 2006. Copyright Catherine Connors.