I'm such a softie.
Ben's now four months old, and for the past three months he's refused to nap anywhere but in a sling, curled up next to my body. In some ways it's great, because I am relatively free to walk around and do a limited number of things, mostly involving eating. I can't/won't do anything involving hot substances, open flame, or sharp edges, so cooking is out, as is any housework other than half-assed vacuuming or light dusting, because I can't bend over. If he's to get a really good nap, though, I have to sit on my trusty yoga ball and bounce away for 45 minutes. It beats running up and down the hallway with an aggressive bounce in my step, which is the other alternative.
Most days I don't mind this. It's three or four extra cuddle sessions with my little man, with his face buried in my armpit and one hand looped around the front of my shirt. I know this is a phase, that it won't last, and that soon enough he'll be pushing me away after the briefest of hugs so he can go pick up worms and eat garbage. Some days, though, all I can think about is the cat fur on the couch, the cat fur on the floor, the cat fur everywhere, and how it sure would be fun and fulfilling to get rid of
Some new-mom friends of mine have had great success teaching their babies to sleep on their own through various techniques; schedules, gradual transitions, routines, books. I commend them for their strength, bow down to their fabulousness. I am weak. Every night I tell myself, "Maybe tomorrow..." and then the day comes, and when Ben starts to rub his eyes and fuss, I slip him into the sling and he drifts off without any problem, and is snoring within seconds. It's so easy this way. Also, the cuddles. I bounce bounce bounce away, lower back aching, shoulder knotted from wearing the sling for a quarter of my waking hours, blogging.
Kind of like now.