Updated: August 21, 2015
Originally Published: July 30, 2012
Crying It Out, or CIO for short, is not exactly how most parents envision spending their weekend nights—or any night, for that matter. I became quite familiar with the CIO method a few years back when I tackled it with our twins. Just when I thought I had escaped this rite of passage, along came my surprise baby in 2011.
Well, last night was a masterclass in CIO, a refresher course I never saw coming. For those who haven’t yet had the pleasure, let me take you through my night—vicariously, of course.
The clock strikes 2:39 a.m., and this moment is crucial for later reference. I flop back onto my pillow, whispering sweet little lies to myself, like “If I just cover my head with this pillow, I might magically fall back asleep.” Spoiler alert: the screaming is so loud that my denial is futile.
After ten minutes of chaos, I finally get up to relieve myself. I might as well empty my bladder since sleep is clearly off the menu. And just my luck—while I’m sitting there, I slip right into the toilet because my husband left the seat up. Gross!
Crawling back into bed, I take a deep breath and comfort myself with the idea that she can’t keep this up forever. She’s wearing herself out, right? #Winning
At 2:59 a.m., I venture out again to check on the other kids. Standing outside the CIO kid’s door, I debate whether I should intervene. There are legitimate reasons for her hysteria—like a blowout diaper or a limb stuck in the crib—but then there are the unacceptable ones: whining for water, wanting another stuffed animal, or claiming to be poopy when she isn’t. I decide against going in; her cries of “THIRSTY!” suggest she’s not in any real danger. Back to bed I go.
As I toss and turn, I start to wonder if I have heartburn. Downstairs I go, in search of Tums, and might as well grab my phone to catch up on some Words With Friends while I’m at it. I manage to score some serious points despite my exhaustion and the rising irritability.
My husband is snoring like a freight train, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of resentment. Maybe I kick his shins just a tad harder than necessary. Meanwhile, our mini poodle is whimpering in a doggy dream, and I can’t help but envy his carefree existence. Why can’t I just be a dog?
Checking the clock repeatedly, I keep asking myself how much longer this will go on. Isn’t she tired? God knows I am!
When the clock hits 3:39 a.m. (a full hour of CIO, which is why noting the start time is vital!), I fling off the covers and storm into her room. I swing the door open and hiss, “WHAT IS GOING ON?”
Tear-streaked and snotty, she waves her naked stuffed pig at me, pleading for help. “Olivia? Dress? Dress on? Help, Mommy?” She sniffs and adjusts her bedraggled bedhead.
Seriously? This is why you’ve been wailing for the last sixty minutes? Because you stripped your doll and can’t get her clothes back on? I grab the pig and the red dress, weighing my options. If I dress the pig, maybe I can finally get some sleep. If I don’t, I risk another hour of this nonsense.
It’s a no-brainer. In just 13 seconds, Olivia is back in her sailor suit, and my child happily snuggles into her crib, sighing contentedly.
I wearily return to my room, hoping this time I can settle in for the night. Oh, wait, it’s morning now. It takes me another half hour to unwind and finally slip into slumber in the newfound silence.
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Summary
The article humorously recounts a parent’s experience with the Cry It Out method during the night. It highlights the challenges and frustrations of sleep-deprived parenting, ultimately leading to a relatable narrative that many can connect with.