Frankie, the spy....

As the salt of my baby's tears lingers on my cheek, I question whether I will ever get the hang of this motherhood thing.

A few weeks ago, Frankie started sleeping through the night. I silently did a little 'V' is for 'Victory' cheer, donning imaginary poms poms and highkicking it to the heavens.

My partner and I had decided to try theTizzy Hall 'Save Our Sleep' routine and after just one night we experienced success. Frankie's 45minute cat naps stretched into 2hour sleep binges. She woke only once for a feed, if at all, instead of the 2-3 times she had in the past. Winner.

Coincidentally, we tried 'Save our Sleep' on the same day that we introduced our bub to the wonderful world of solids, so who knows which factor was the deciding one for a better night's kip. Whatever the influence, something was working and I wasn't exactly complaining.

But it's now Frankie's 4 month birthday and just when I thought we had it all under control, the little minx got her skates on and started rolling over. She's been rolling during playtime quite happily for a few weeks, but has never before mixed her playtime activities with her bedtime ones. And since she started flipping over in bed, she's never slept the same since. I quite simply don't understand why she insists on turning onto her stomach yet as soon as she gets there she starts crying. If I try to roll her onto her back again, she freaks out as though I've tricked her with some sort of devilry. Cranky Frankie emerges and shakes down the walls with her wails.

For the last two nights she has slept no longer than 45 minutes in a row. I am still trying my best to stick to the self-settling rules of 'Save Our Sleep', but occassionally I crumble and pick her up for a cuddle. Hence my tear stained face, as her cheek presses against mine for whatever token of warmth and comfort I can afford her. My partner is so much stronger than I am and can put up with the tears because he can sanely rationalise that she is warm, well-fed, and comfortable so she must only be protesting against some imaginary hardship thrust upon her. But each cry, each scream, each wail claws at my soul and I literally have to stop myself from drawing blood as my fingers dig into the palm of my hands.

I can only hope that some sort of routine will establish itself and I will finally understand my baby. At the moment it feels as though I am babysitting an alien spy who works ever so hard to imitate human behaviour, but reveals her true self at sleep time by proving unable to match typical bedtime rituals. Be gone, alien! Come back my darling sleep-loving daughter. Oh, how mummy's missed you....