I can count on one hand the number of times since giving birth that I've woken up just because I had to pee. Even now that Gunnar and Annalie (now 2 and 1) have both been "sleeping through the night" for months, I'm routinely yanked out of bed to adjust blankets, dry nightmare-induced tears, monitor fevers, rub bellies, or just pop my head in to say, "It's still nighttime. Go back to sleep." And "morning" is typically 6 a.m. at the latest.

My husband, Brian, is on duty Tuesday and Friday nights. Even though I usually still wake up between 6 and 7, just getting to shut the door when I first turn in and again when Brian heads downstairs with the bedhead brigade helps my mind rest. In fact, we both have found that we often don"t hear a peep on our off-nights because we've trained our minds for when it's okay to tune out.

I get an average of six slightly interrupted hours of sleep per night, which feels like nirvana compared to the newborn mixed-bag (usually full of colic, reflux, constipation, inability to put child down, and other goodies not compatible with with restoring one's mind and body).

When Gunnar was about five months old, he'd outgrown most of these issues. But he'd still erupt every couple of hours--and soften to quiet coos and gurgles the instant one of us picked him up. We'd run down the checklist nonetheless and provide bottles, gas drops, and teething gel he likely didn't need. He wouldn't go back in the crib until he'd been passed out in my or Brian's arms for a good 10 minutes. Then we'd place him carefully back down and tiptoe out of the room in a question-mark shaped path to avoid squeaky floorboards.

At some point we realized: This kid was screwing with us.

We had also started speaking to each other exclusively with one- or two-word bitten-off phrases. I can't even provide more details because I think my brain went into energy-saving mode, screensaver bopping around in my pupils.

So we picked a date and began Ferberizing. When Gunny woke, one of us would go in, pat his head, shhhh a few times, ridiculously, and leave the boy twice as furious as he was before the attempt to reassure. Then Brian and I would sit in our bed holding hands and cringing through five minutes of earth-shattering screams. Then it was time to check in again, and then wait through 10 minutes of feeling horrible. Then 15 minutes. By this point, Gunny would have his angry little head down on the mattress in a pool of tears and snot. Then, just before the 20-minute check: silence. We'd stay up a little longer just to check again to make sure he was still breathing. A couple of times, this led to another five minutes of sobbing.

The very first night, Gunnar woke up cheerful and did not seem to recount the torture from the night before. After a week, he'd sleep seven or eight quiet hours in a row. Brian and I began exchanging sentences again. We may have high-fived.

Then, our baby got a cold, and we set the tough love aside until the illness passed. Or so we thought. The unnecessary 2 a.m. bottles were back, the rocking, the anxiousness for morning to just get here already because the night was a total loss.

But we just couldn't handle another round of crying it out. And then I read somewhere that some babies need five or six boosters before they get it. I picked up The No-Cry Sleep Solution and read all about how this repeated horror was unnecessary and that a lovey and a sleep journal would fix everything.

We gave being monsters another shot, but this time, beginning with the initial bedtime. No more letting him fall asleep while drinking a bottle--ever. The second attempt was even worse, since at eight months old, Gunnar could stand in his crib and yell "Maaaa-MA."

But it did work. The process went smoother and faster with Annalie, who remains a great sleeper 90% of the time.

According to a recent blog entry by Dennis Rosen, MD, a pediatric specialist at Children's Hospital in Boston, sleep training does not damage children psychologically (http://tinyurl.com/mdytuv). Even without this reassurance, I think we made the right decision for our family. I would absolutely go with crying it out again, but am ever so happy I don't have to.

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Author Bio: Deb Beaulieu received her Bachelor of Arts in English, with a minor in psychology, from Salem (MA) State College in 2001. For the past eight years, Deb has worked as a journalist and editor for various publications in the insurance and healthcare trade press. She lives in the Boston area with her husband and two young children. In April 2009, she launched her first parenting blog—www.spawnocalypse.com—where readers come to laugh, cringe, and relate. Deb is also an avid long-distance runner who completed the Cape Cod Marathon in 2004.