My Baby Monitor Addiction

Yesterday, in a three year old “I don’t want to nap even though I am besides myself with exhaustion” apocalyptic melt-down, my darling one decided to smash the baby monitor. I’m not sure how he did it but as I sat waiting through a stream of howling, yelling and screaming – the sounds abruptly turned to just…. static. Assuming he had pulled the monitor out of the wall, I stormed in only to find him still gloriously enraged and a part of the monitor’s plug cracked, as if hacked off the wall. My request that he nap was clearly an outrageous one – and the monitor had to pay the price for his suffering.

My monitor, my trusty spying side-kick, was dead.

As you well know, my sons are hardly wee babes any longer. They are solid, school going, “big boys” now at the substantial ages of three and six. Do I really need a monitor any longer?

Probably not.

Certainly there are schools of thought that believe this whole monitor business is simply one more hugely unnecessary burden today’s parent places on themselves. Our parents and our parents parents didn’t have monitors. And they successfully heard their children cry out, carry on and tantrum at naptime. In fact, some say that NOT hearing every whimper your child makes is a good thing. You’ll hear them if you need to. They can figure it out.

And I will give the nay-sayers that. The monitor requires parents to sleep with one ear trained on the breathing patterns of our children. We stir when they stir. We wake when they wake. We worry over any snarf, coo or fart.

But you see, I don’t mind.

I kind of like it that way.

Because, my friends, the sounds of my children sleeping are like an addiction of sorts. And my monitor is my dealer. While I settle in for the night, my monitor brings me my fix: my boys slumbering sighs satisfy every sense, they green-light my mind to wander, they promise me total reassurance. All is well. Sleep can happen.

I know, I know. My house isn’t even that big. If their door is open and my door is open, I can hear them if they call out. And they are three and six, for the love of God. If they REALLY needed me, they could climb out of bed and, in three seconds flat, leap wildly – with their well trained pajamaed feet – right into our bed.

Truly, our trusty little baby monitor is now – if hasn’t been all along – entirely obsolete. It’s silly. It’s unnecessary.

But it’s my addiction.

Because as I laid down to sleep last night, I heard… nothing. Silence. I felt partially deaf. Muffled. It was as if my children were no longer there. After 6 years of ambient breaths and quiet background static, there was just… nothing.

“What if someone broke into that front window, someone could get them – we wouldn’t hear anything!”

My husband looked as if he agreed. He is as much an addict as I am.

But we both know that we would hear someone if they broke in, surely. Even if my husband slept as deeply as he usually does, I would wake up. I stir when the cat walks across the floor or the rain hits the window or the toilet starts (sonofa… who didn’t jiggle handle!?) running.

We don’t need a monitor.

We don’t.

But. Um. I reeeeeally still want to go get one.

I mean, I kind of thought that having a monitor around the house would just come in handy. My husband can use it as a one way speaker when he’s in there. And imagine its many uses if we quietly stuffed it under their beds when they’ve reached double digits and are no longer telling me a thing. IMAGINE what we would be privy to!

Ok, maybe that’s not a great idea.

But I had truly convinced myself that monitors are 100% practical parenting tools which every household must have, no matter the child’s age.

Fine. I am simply admitting out loud what I have felt ever since I brought my oldest son home from the hospital six years ago. The twelve steps between our bedroom door and their bedroom door seems an enormous distance in the haze of sleep, in the semi-conscious “are my babies ok?” state where every parent hovers most of the night. If I am unsure of their safety and comfort, well, I can’t help but let my mind wander and worry. And in the wee hours, its hard to agree to much sanity regarding your children unless you actually hear their sweet, shallow breaths coming from that red light on the dresser.

But FINE. Yes. I know. It’s time. I need to try. I must break myself of this addiction. It’s time for this household to say goodbye to our baby (*sniff, sniff *) monitor.

Besides. I know my ears will always do their radar thing. Monitor or not, my senses are trained on their sounds where ever they are in the house. I can still hear them. I just need to convince myself, while I roll over in the deep dark of night, that the peaceful quiet of the house means there is also peace twelve steps away. All will be well.

Unless I wander into the baby section at Target tomorrow and give in to my cravings for children’s breath and soft static. Unless…