I slept in my own bed last night, for the first time in eleven months. It's a bit embarrassing, really - I don't generally consider myself a gullible person, but as a duty to expecting parents out there I'll admit to falling for a ridiculous concept called "room sharing". The fallacy of room sharing is based primarily on the widespread misconception that babies sleep. At all. Ever.
Mine does not.
He grunts, growls, snorts, whimpers, cries, crawls, climbs, thrashes, plays and wrestles, but does no such thing that could be perceived as actual sleeping. Hence, I have been sleeping in our Executive Guest Suite (ie., bed in basement) for eleven months.
I rue the demise of many conventions in our society. Table manners and giving the young'uns a nip of whisky to help them sleep are among them.
As we all know, one in three home renovations ends in divorce, so when you are planning your renovation budget be sure to include a generous allowance for custody battles and other such contingencies. Fortunately, I'm not married. (At least not to the person I'm shacked up with, but that's another blog entirely.) But we rolled the dice this past weekend and put in a third bedroom, and I am pleased to announce that the baby now has his own room, which means we have our own room, and hot dog, we like it.
So the moral of the story is: room-sharing is evil. It must be stopped. Tell your friends.