Would you like that starched or Ferberized?
I ran into my friend Judy coming out of the dry cleaners the other day. She was a mess. The dark circles under her eyes had pockets. She alternated between yawning and sniffling into a handful of tissues. She had developed this twitch where she would clutch her throat and gasp. Her son Trevor, on the other hand, was gurgling and flirting with every woman in the mini-mall. He sat in the car seat, smiling and drooling and waving like the Mayor.
"Judy," I cautiously asked, "are you okay?"
Sniff. "I'm fine." Yawn.
"You look a little out of sorts," I ventured. "Did Trevor keep you up last night?"
She looked panicked. "You live three miles away. Don't tell me you heard him, too." Clutch. Gasp.
I gestured to a small bench outside the ice cream parlor. "Judy, sit down. Heard him do what?"
"Scream. He was screaming for thirty minutes at a time. Some of the neighbors called to see if we needed the police. One actually called the police and said she always knew I would snap. I had to show the officer that everyone was okay and of course after he left that meant we just had to start all over again." Gasp. Sniff. Yawn.
I used my best "patient-Mommy" voice. "Judy, why was Trevor screaming for thirty minutes? What did you have to start all over again?"
"Oh, I thought I said that already. We're Ferberizing Trevor."
I understood immediately. The only comfort I could offer her was a pat on the hand and the reasurance that we've all been through it and it works...sometimes.
Ferberizing. We've turned it into a verb. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, I'm referring to Dr. Richard Ferber's controversial technique for helping children learn to go to sleep by themselves as detailed in his updated book Solve Your Child’s Sleep Problems. We’re advised to stop rocking, singing, breastfeeding or otherwise lulling our children to sleep in our arms. Instead we're instructed to follow Dr. Ferber's step-by-step guide to independent sleep habits. Basically, you dump the kid in the crib and leave...for five minutes at a time the first night, ten the second and so on in increasing five-minute intervals until she learns to fall asleep on her own.
The alternative, we're told, are kids who will fight normal bedtime routines for the rest of their childhood. The kinds of kids that babysitters shun, grandmothers roll their eyes over and dinner guests gossip about. You know the kid who won't stay in bed, but runs out of his room trailing a dirty diaper when your boss is over for dinner. How about the kind of kid who is perfectly angelic until you say, "Bedtime," then throws a tantrum and threatens to break your best crystal unless you give her "five more minutes" to finish her game. You know, normal kids.
So I dutifully followed the steps and in the process learned what an ogre I can be if I'm doing something for the "good" of my son. I guess Dr. Ferber's kids didn't cry that loudly. Maybe his walls were thicker than mine. Maybe his skin was thicker than mine.
All I know is that Ferberizing traumatized me far worse than it did Farrell, whose lung capacity exceeded my nerve. When we Ferberized Farrell he screamed and yelled for fifty-two minutes non-stop before he finally went to sleep on the eleventh night. He screamed and yelled for fifty-two minutes every night for the rest of that week before he "developed" a normal bedtime routine. By then, my nerves were jumping like a cardiogram, as were my husband’s. We took turns sitting on each other to keep from running into the room and scooping him up.
We are now being treated for Post-Traumatic Syndrome; our self-image as gentle, caring people is shot. We know the truth. We're beasts. We're terrible, terrible people who conspired to torture our baby for almost two weeks to avoid being shunned by babysitters.
My good friend Nancy tried the Ferber method one night. That was her limit. Her daughter Nikki is now six. Nancy climbs into bed with Nikki and holds her until they're both asleep. David, her husband, wakes his wife at nine so she can wash up and go to bed with him. She figures Nikki will be able to sleep on her own before she's old enough for sleep-away camp...or college. In the meantime, Nancy's well-rested and has no dark circles under her eyes.
As for Judy, it took only three more nights and one more visit from the police for Trevor to finally get Ferberized. She still has nightmares from the experience but we’ve got a pretty good support group called S.O.F.T. -- Survivors of Ferberizing Trauma.
She's healing. We're all healing.
"Judy," I cautiously asked, "are you okay?"
Sniff. "I'm fine." Yawn.
"You look a little out of sorts," I ventured. "Did Trevor keep you up last night?"
She looked panicked. "You live three miles away. Don't tell me you heard him, too." Clutch. Gasp.
I gestured to a small bench outside the ice cream parlor. "Judy, sit down. Heard him do what?"
"Scream. He was screaming for thirty minutes at a time. Some of the neighbors called to see if we needed the police. One actually called the police and said she always knew I would snap. I had to show the officer that everyone was okay and of course after he left that meant we just had to start all over again." Gasp. Sniff. Yawn.
I used my best "patient-Mommy" voice. "Judy, why was Trevor screaming for thirty minutes? What did you have to start all over again?"
"Oh, I thought I said that already. We're Ferberizing Trevor."
I understood immediately. The only comfort I could offer her was a pat on the hand and the reasurance that we've all been through it and it works...sometimes.
Ferberizing. We've turned it into a verb. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, I'm referring to Dr. Richard Ferber's controversial technique for helping children learn to go to sleep by themselves as detailed in his updated book Solve Your Child’s Sleep Problems. We’re advised to stop rocking, singing, breastfeeding or otherwise lulling our children to sleep in our arms. Instead we're instructed to follow Dr. Ferber's step-by-step guide to independent sleep habits. Basically, you dump the kid in the crib and leave...for five minutes at a time the first night, ten the second and so on in increasing five-minute intervals until she learns to fall asleep on her own.
The alternative, we're told, are kids who will fight normal bedtime routines for the rest of their childhood. The kinds of kids that babysitters shun, grandmothers roll their eyes over and dinner guests gossip about. You know the kid who won't stay in bed, but runs out of his room trailing a dirty diaper when your boss is over for dinner. How about the kind of kid who is perfectly angelic until you say, "Bedtime," then throws a tantrum and threatens to break your best crystal unless you give her "five more minutes" to finish her game. You know, normal kids.
So I dutifully followed the steps and in the process learned what an ogre I can be if I'm doing something for the "good" of my son. I guess Dr. Ferber's kids didn't cry that loudly. Maybe his walls were thicker than mine. Maybe his skin was thicker than mine.
All I know is that Ferberizing traumatized me far worse than it did Farrell, whose lung capacity exceeded my nerve. When we Ferberized Farrell he screamed and yelled for fifty-two minutes non-stop before he finally went to sleep on the eleventh night. He screamed and yelled for fifty-two minutes every night for the rest of that week before he "developed" a normal bedtime routine. By then, my nerves were jumping like a cardiogram, as were my husband’s. We took turns sitting on each other to keep from running into the room and scooping him up.
We are now being treated for Post-Traumatic Syndrome; our self-image as gentle, caring people is shot. We know the truth. We're beasts. We're terrible, terrible people who conspired to torture our baby for almost two weeks to avoid being shunned by babysitters.
My good friend Nancy tried the Ferber method one night. That was her limit. Her daughter Nikki is now six. Nancy climbs into bed with Nikki and holds her until they're both asleep. David, her husband, wakes his wife at nine so she can wash up and go to bed with him. She figures Nikki will be able to sleep on her own before she's old enough for sleep-away camp...or college. In the meantime, Nancy's well-rested and has no dark circles under her eyes.
As for Judy, it took only three more nights and one more visit from the police for Trevor to finally get Ferberized. She still has nightmares from the experience but we’ve got a pretty good support group called S.O.F.T. -- Survivors of Ferberizing Trauma.
She's healing. We're all healing.