Ladybug Bed Hog rules nest

My 60-pound mixed-breed dog has nothing on my 22-pound baby when it comes to occupying prime real estate in bed.
Although I try to start out sleeping 18 inches from the edge of the mattress, by 6:30 a.m. I’m perilously close to landing on the floor.
Our sleeping space is ruled by an angel-faced bed hog in ladybug pajamas.
She takes advantage of any rollover, readjustment or nighttime feeding, scootching closer and closer. Much of the time, she lies on her right side, legs at a 90-degree angle, feet braced against me. If an earthquake strikes in the middle of the night, she’ll keep her balance. Sometimes she kneads my back with her toes. Occasionally she turns completely sideways so she can touch both parents at once. Or she flops around onto her hands and knees and starts sleep-crawling, head-butting me awake.
I haven’t been getting my beauty sleep lately. Can you tell? Wait, don’t answer that.
Prepregnancy, I would have said that sleeping was one of my talents.
Living in an industrial part of Memphis, Tenn., as a child, I learned early to tune out trains and traffic. During summers on my grandfather’s farm, there were chirping crickets, lowing cows and crowing roosters to ignore.
By my freshman year of college, I could sleep right through the clanging clamor of a brass Big Ben alarm clock without hearing a thing. My roommate hated me. After late nights slinging catfish fillets at a family restaurant and driving two hours to type out colorful yet technically lame reviews of junior college basketball games for a nearby daily newspaper, I rarely got enough sleep. I snored through so many classes, I had to get rid of Big Ben and find a clock that didn’t turn itself off. And I quit signing up for early classes.
Thankfully, I stumbled into a career that allows me to not own an alarm clock. I used to get up when I woke up. Imagine that: listening to your body.
In the old days, I’d sleep for a solid six, seven and a half or nine hours. Nine hours is optimal for me, especially if I’m exercising much; that’s plenty of time for my body to recover from a long hike or bike.
Pregnancy produced a host of sleep problems: big belly limited body position options; uterus pressure on bladder required several nighttime bathroom visits; everything swelled, including nasal membranes, which led to snoring on my part and loud complaining from the husband. Folks say the crappy sleep of pregnancy prepares you for the crappy sleep of motherhood. I concur.
These days, I’m lucky if I get three hours of uninterrupted slumber. Ladybug Bed Hog yells at me, demanding a midnight snack. And one at 3, 5 and 6 a.m. Or she poops and needs a fresh diaper.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Until 5 months of age, Desi slept in her bassinet next to our bed. Then we moved her to a crib in the room next door. That lasted for almost six months, when she wormed her way back into our bed. And there she has stayed.
Variously called co-sleeping, bed-sharing or simply sleeping in the family bed, this arrangement is common in most of the world, but oft-frowned-upon in America. There’s a raging debate about it among parents, pediatricians and buttinskies.
Co-sleeping is one of the core tenets of attachment parenting, a style of child rearing that also espouses breast-feeding as long as the child wants and comforting baby rather than letting him cry. Proponents say bed-sharing promotes breast-feeding and helps children feel secure. Some studies have shown that a mother acts like a pacemaker, keeping baby’s breathing even and calm. Makes sense.
It also probably helps parents feel secure. For anxiety-prone mommies like me, it’s nice to be able to reach over, feel baby’s chest moving and know she’s still breathing. I can even multitask, sometimes drifting back to sleep and feeding the baby at the same time.
Our pediatrician accepts it. Books I’ve read say it’s OK so long as the parents aren’t drunk or stoned and might roll over and crush the baby.
Pfft. I’m a little more worried about breaking my own face when Ladybug Bed Hog pushes me onto the floor.
Having a baby in bed means it takes roughly 11 hours – going to bed at 9 and not getting up until 8 – for me to get nine hours of sleep. More often than I’d like, I have to stay up late getting my act together. Then it takes a while for my brain to calm down enough to snooze, so I get closer to seven hours of shuteye.
As the nights tick by, and she’s almost 15 months old, I do seem a bit more rested. Or maybe I’m just getting used to getting by on less sleep. Coffee shops are getting a disproportionate slice of my disposable income.
And there isn’t much sweeter in the world than the face of a happy, sleeping child.
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Features editor Johanna Love is looking forward to spring break and the excellent sleep she always gets in her vintage Airstream. Find her musings on parenting in this space every other week.