It was 3 a.m. when the nurse opened my hospital door, leaned in, and announced with an insistent tone, “Don’t fall asleep with the baby in your bed.”
“Of course not,” I lied with a smile.
“Never sleep with your baby.” Horror stories of babies being crushed or suffocated by their parents permeate the culture. It’s so deeply ingrained that its validity has gone largely unchallenged. So much so, it’s entered into the realm of social morality: Babies don’t belong in adult beds.
Even so, I never bought it.
He needed me. I needed him. We both needed sleep.
As Nurse Ratched closed the door, I kissed the top of my newborn’s head while he slept contently on my chest. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.
