A few years ago, the idea of sleeping for eight hours – hell, sleeping for two hours – uninterrupted was like a fantasy in the realm of winning Lotto or marrying Ryan Gosling. That’s because my then five-month old daughter Coco was waking up to eight times every night to have her dummy re-plugged.
Even now, those days, months, are a grey blur. I remember stumbling up and down the hallway in the dark every night and barely being able to answer my sympathetic girlfriends who asked me “how was last night?”. Simply because I couldn’t remember. It was all a blur of crying and waking and soothing and stumbling back to bed and more crying and getting up and being out of my mind with exhaustion so that I often felt hollow.