Sleep is a mythical concept when you’re the parent of a child under two.

It shimmers on the horizon like a desert mirage – teasing, taunting – and just when you think it’s finally here to stay… poof. Gone. Adiós. Auf Wiedersehen. Hamba kahle.

Our laat lammetjie, Esti Rose, came into this world full-term, chubby and with all the signs of being a textbook angel baby – that rare unicorn who eats and sleeps like a dream. She wasn’t. And neither did I.

Somehow, we survived. And just when I’d resigned myself to a life of permanent brain fog and coffee dependence, she started sleeping through the night at around 20 months. I was reborn. I smiled again. I sang in the car. I even jogged. Life was beautiful.

Only to have the play mat of life ripped unceremoniously from under me by the arrival of the much dreaded developmental milestone: Jail break.

The first time it happens it’s more like you’ve narrowly missed a trip to the ER than your baby has learnt a new skill. You hear an almighty crash from the nursery and baby has face-planted on the carpet. You lower the side rails but secretly hope that the memory of the tears from that crash landing will be enough to deter future escape attempts. You will be sorely disappointed.

The pitter patter of tiny feet down the passage soon became the soundtrack to my personal horror movie. Delighted by the discovery and fully charged by the endorphins released in this new game, Esti was now fully awake and refusing to go back to bed. I on the other hand had just been woken from the dead sleep of a woman trying to catch up on 20 months without an unbroken night.

Round the merry-go-round we went for many a night. Rocking, nursing, cuddling, she feigns sleep, I try to put her in her bed, she cries. Repeat. And repeat.

Until one glorious night, I cracked.

So I did the only thing I could do. I woke her dad.

I unceremoniously handed my strong-willed daughter to my husband and without explanation, went to bed.

Turns out, he’s a sleep-training savant. He’s kind, consistent, firm… and crucially, incapable of making milk.

I get the idea that Esti believes that if she puts enough pressure, I will eventually crack (she’s probably right). With her dad she has no such misconceptions.

The first night he must have put her back in her bed 100 times, the next night 50 and by night three, she gave a weak effort and turned in for the night.

We’re now down to one or two nightly visits, but she goes back to bed without drama. And as for me?

I have never loved the man more.

Stay in the loop with The North Coast Courier on Facebook, X, Instagram & YouTube for the latest news.

Mobile users can join our WhatsApp Broadcast Service here or if you’re on desktop, scan the QR code below.