Sleep
I remember when my oldest child slept through the night for the first time. We went to sleep and woke up to light filtering through the window. I popped up, looked at my husband, and we squealed with delight. SHE DID IT! I had never felt more well-rested than I did at that moment. It was the first time in six weeks that I had gotten eight consecutive hours of sleep. I celebrated as I waltzed through the living room into her room where she laid swaddled, babbling, looking up at me, smiling. An angel. Like she knew what she had done. I told her how proud I was of her. From then on, she slept. We’d have friends over after she went to bed, conversations and laughter and music just on the other side of her bedroom wall, and she slept. We’d ride for long distances in the car, and she slept. Sure, she’d have bouts of sleep regression or teething or colds that would get her out of whack, but she slept. We thought this was normal. Sure, the first six weeks are hard, but if you just swaddle, bottle, and put them in their own crib, they’ll sleep! What’s all the fuss about? And then we had our second.
We live in a small, two bedroom home, and so our second child’s crib was tucked in the corner of our bedroom. She’ll just sleep in here for the first six weeks, we told ourselves, and then when she’s sleeping a little better, she’ll move in with our oldest. Our second child, April, is fifteen months old now, and I can count on maybe two hands the amount of times she has slept through the night uninterrupted. From the moment we brought her home, she grunted and groaned and cried throughout the night (even while seemingly “asleep”). She nursed until she was fourteen months old, and she insisted on being fed every hour or two. A three-hour stretch was a blessing. Four hours total every night — and not consecutive — was normal. If my husband or I simply turned in the bed, she’d hear it and immediately wake. Needless to say, the crib never made it out of our bedroom.
There was this heavy feeling that would wash over me as night time approached. The moment we’d place her in her crib, I felt like I had to rush to do all-the-things so that I, too, could get in bed — nevermind that it was eight at night. Lights from the living room reached for me in the dark bedroom. My heart longed to spend time with my husband, to snuggle my then-two-year-old on the couch, but I knew this might be my only chance. I’d quietly slip into bed, close my eyes, and find quickly that I was gritting my teeth while I was begging for sleep to overcome me. I was exhausted — yes — but the pressure of having to fall asleep right that minute was overwhelming. I told myself to just lay totally still, to slowly count or listen to my own breathing. Finally, my breath would deepen, my thoughts would wander, and I’d push myself along, Almost there. You’re almost asleep. Then, my body was heavy. My lips would part.
A cry.
And then another. And another and another and another.
I would check the time. 9:00 p.m.
My daughter would nurse and go back to her crib. 9:30 p.m. The process would then start all over again. Every hour or so, a cry would beget a louder cry and eventually, she would wail. Our 900-square-foot house was no match to the screams of an infant. A six-month-old. An eleven-month-old. No matter how much older she got, every night was the same. We’d rush to her, eager to get her to quiet before she woke up her sister. There was nowhere to take her to hide. Nowhere her cries could be silenced. And she only wanted me.
Around three in the morning, I’d start to panic. “I’m not going to sleep tonight. I’m not going to sleep tonight. I’m not going to sleep tonight,” I’d say over and over again. Manic thoughts drilled into my brain until I’d begin counting the hours that remained until either my toddler would wake or my alarm would go off to get ready for work. My mouth would tighten and my heart would race and I couldn’t believe I would just not sleep again. She would cry, and I’d hide under the covers and whimper. I can’t do it, I thought a million times.
And then I would. I’d pick up my daughter and head to the living room.
This is the time I would start praying for daylight. Please, God, let it be morning. I’d pray and she’d nurse and we’d both fall asleep for a few minutes sitting upright in the living room. Eventually, I’d hear the first birdsong. My head would perk slightly, There it is, I’d sigh with relief. I’d look down at my daughter, shades of light blue in the morning light. Beautiful. Perfect. But what came next was something I could never predict: either I’d feel immense gratitude for the comfort of knowing that other human beings were intentionally awake as well, that I wasn’t alone anymore, or I’d start feeling angry. I’d prayed for the daylight, and suddenly I was filled with rage. Another night and no sleep. I would need to go to work now or take care of my two children and no one cared what happened the night before. No one knew I hadn’t really slept in months.
My daughter’s eyes would open, studying mama, and I’d catch myself glaring back at her — angry — How dare you? I’d think. She’d look at me deeper and begin to cry. AGAIN? I’d think. Rage uncontrollable. “WHY ARE YOU CRYING? SLEEP!” I’d finally shout. That did it. Her cries would bellow through the house. The monster inside me begged to be let loose. My husband’s footsteps raced towards the living room. “I got her. Go to bed.” But it was too late. I was gone — a new, ugly version of a once-patient mother replaced me. Anger met shame quickly, and they danced with exhaustion and, ultimately, depression.
I handed the baby to her father. She screamed for me. A single tear fell from my eye with no effort, no consciousness, and I would start to walk back. “Just go,” he’d say.
I’d close the door and lay in bed. I wouldn’t sleep. I would cry.
I didn’t know how I would survive.
I don’t know how I survived.
Now, my daughter has begun to sleep more consistently throughout the night. There are nights when we get almost eight hours of sleep which, in the past year, has only been a dream of ours. But I’m finding that the lingering effects of over a year without adequate sleep are profound. Every night, I still find myself getting that anxious feeling watching the clock tick by. I hurry to bed trying to soak in every minute I have of rest. My husband and I find ourselves desperate for naps daily. How could we ever recover from over a year without sleep? I hear the cries of newborns, and it makes my insides crawl.
Even writing this piece has been a fight for me. I’ll write about what it’s like to lose sleep, I thought. Simple enough. What I found quickly was that it wasn’t simple at all. But as I write now, my emotions are all over the place. I can’t read my own writing without panicking a bit, feeling too deeply the horrible feelings I felt when I would look at my baby with resentment for what she was taking from me. The enormous guilt I still feel for losing my patience. The shame I still feel for blaming her, a helpless baby who just wanted her mother. One bad night now can send me into a total spiral — a year’s worth of anger still rising to the surface.
I don’t know how this story ends. I can only wonder if the experience of the past year will sit in my bones forever, or if continued sleep will cure what lack of it stole.
Born and raised in a small town in Georgia, KATE BAILEY is a wife and a mother of two girls, Jane and April. She works in the field of personalized learning in secondary Education. Her mission is to find the beauty in the ordinary, wonderful, and difficult moments of parenthood as a way to connect us all and validate each of our journeys.
