I had a dream the other night. In it, I slept the entire night without being woken up, once. In addition to this indulgence, the sheets I slept on, and the duvet I slept underneath, had just been freshly laundered. AND I was wearing the most comfortable, new pajamas.
It was the best dream. I woke up so happy.
And then, I thought about how happy I felt—after such a tremendously boring dream.
And that made me feel a little sad.
“We see but in dreams the ideal.” —Henri Cazalis
“All men whilst they are awake are in one common world: but each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own.” —Plutarch
About 10 days ago our children stopped sleeping. I remember Sophie going through phases, phases in which I spent, literally, hours draped over her crib, rubbing her back, internally pleading with her to sleep. Eventually we let her cry, periodically checking on her, and while it worked it wasn’t easy.
James spent several nights in a row up. Wide-awake up. If I put him in his crib, he screamed. And “cry it out” doesn’t work with twins who share a room. Because if you let one cry it out, the other, invariably, wakes up. And then you have a bigger problem on your hands.
I eventually took him to the pediatrician, fearing it would be another one of those “yep, looks like he’s had this ear infection for awhile” diagnosis that I still feel guilty about. But he’s fine. I mean, all three of my children currently have colds (tis the season) but he’s fine.
Last night, after many rushes to children who were crying, and then lots of holding, shushing, Tylenol-ing, diaper changing and loving, we ended up like this: James slept next to me, propped up on pillows (because of his cold), on Andy’s side of the bed. Sophie (who woke up several times because of the boys’ screaming) ended up sleeping at the end of my bed (and waking up several times in the night to complain that my feet were in her way).
Owen spent part of the middle of the night downstairs with Andy and ended up sleeping in his own crib but only after crying for a good 30 minutes.
Andy slept in Sophie’s bed, surrounded by her stuffed animals, wrapped up in her quilt.
Tonight Sophie took an hour to go to sleep.
James spent two hours in my bed, propped up on pillows with the humidifier at full blast. But he kept flipping himself over in his sleep, once off the bed (I caught him). As much as I was worried about the croup returning, and as much as I loved looking over and watching him sleep, I didn’t trust myself enough to catch him while I was sleeping. So back in his crib he went (thankfully he only cried for a few minutes before going to sleep).
And now it’s 11:15pm. Owen woke up about 45 minutes ago, screaming. I held him, calmed him, put him down and tried to rub his back while he cried, but he was thrashing so much it was pointless. So I left the room. Thankfully, he quieted down quickly, before James woke up.
Now, everyone is asleep. But I know it won’t last. And I hate that feeling, that knowing that in just a few short hours I’m going to be up, pleading, wondering what to do, wishing this phase was over. It’s different when you’re nursing in the middle of the night—it’s routine, the breast or bottle instantly calms tears. This, this middle-of-the-night crying, unpredictability, being awake, exhausts me.
Ugh, crying. I must end here.
“Without enough sleep, we all become tall 2-year-olds.” —JoJo Jensen
Our linen closet is the top shelf in the boys’ bedroom closet. And it is there where I store many extras—bars of soap, tissue boxes, razor blades, little bottles of shampoo from hotels and extra contact lens cases. (Actually, now that I think about it, there’s not a single linen on that shelf. But it’s all stuff I would store in a linen closet if I had one.) Monday, I threw away my current contact lens case because of a missing cap. All week long I have intended to grab a new contact lens case from our “linen closet.” And all week long, I’ve forgotten—until after the boys have gone to bed.
Earlier this week I tried to convince Andy to sneak into the boys’ room for me, but he refused. Actually, at first he refused. Then he said I’d have to deal with the boys if they woke up. And then I refused. And there is no way I’m going to successfully attempt to sneak into their room, open the closet door, climb up on a stool, dig around in a basket and extract an extra lens case. Especially when I’m the one who still hasn’t learned where the creaks are in our stairs, something Andy points out to me every time we walk down them together, after finally getting the children to sleep.
And, so, this is why I have soaked my contact lenses in shot glasses every night this week.
Pre-children, I would have thought this story crazy. Post-children, I now understand why, years ago, my mom said she once crawled out of my nursery, after I had finally fallen asleep.
I imagine I’m not alone when I say this: I will do most anything to keep my sleeping children asleep. (As I’m typing this I hear ocean waves. In Fort Thomas. In October.)
“Parenthood remains the greatest single preserve of the amateur.” —Alvin Toffler
“And if tonight my soul may find her peace
in sleep, and sink in good oblivion,
and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower
then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.” —D.H. Lawrence
James, taken January 25
“Life is a long process of getting tired.” —Samuel Butler
Sophie insisted.
“For most of life, nothing wonderful happens. If you don’t enjoy getting up and working and finishing your work and sitting down to a meal with family or friends, then the chances are you’re not going to be very happy. If someone bases his happiness or unhappiness on major events like a great new job, huge amounts of money, a flawlessly happy marriage or a trip to Paris, that person isn’t going to be happy much of the time. If, on the other hand, happiness depends on a good breakfast, flowers in the yard, a drink or a nap, then we are more likely to live with quite a bit of happiness.” —Andy Rooney
Owen and James will be four months old on the 19th and we’re still getting up in the middle of the night. But things have improved greatly from the first few months—a good night is a feeding around 1am or 2am, and another around 5am or 6am, with the boys going to bed sometime between 9pm and 10pm. And last night we let Owen sleep, even though James woke up around 2am. And sleep Owen did—from about 10pm to 5am. Ahhh.
But note the plural “we.” I don’t buy the “Well, my husband works all day so it’s my responsibility to do all the nighttime work” argument I hear over and over from stay-at-home and work-at-home moms. Thankfully, my husband doesn’t, either (although I’m sure there are many nights he wished I was the type of mom who did do all the nighttime feedings herself).
Here’s the thing: I work all day. He works all day. Come 2am, we’re on equal ground.
I believe sleep deprivation to be one of the hardest aspects of caring for a newborn. So I find it old-fashioned, inconsiderate and, well, wrong that overnight work should automatically fall to the woman, simply because she’s the mom. And that includes exclusively nursing moms.
Sophie was born via c-section because she was breech. So, for the first two weeks after her birth, when she cried, Andy had to get up in the middle of the night to change her diaper and bring her to me. Andy would fall back asleep while I nursed her and then I would gently wake him up so that he could put her back to bed when I was done. Once I had healed, we’d simply take turns. Yes, I had to be up for every feeding because I was exclusively nursing. But during the times he’d get up, change her diaper and bring her too me, I’d nurse almost half-asleep. It was far easier on me. And it wasn’t a big deal for Andy because he was able to sleep while I nursed. And finally, Sophie got middle-of-the-night bonding time with both of us.
The boys get 100 percent breast milk. But, for a variety of reasons of which I plan to write about soon, it’s mostly pumped milk. So they’re bottle fed, which I hate (again, for a variety of reasons) but also which I love, because it allows other people to share in the task. So when James cries (he’s smaller and always wakes up before Owen), I wake up Andy. He gets the bottles ready while I change James’ diaper and try to keep him quiet (so that he won’t wake up Sophie) until it’s time to eat. Then Andy wakes up Owen, changes his diaper and feeds him while I feed James. We put both boys back to bed. Andy goes to sleep, I pump, and then I go to sleep. Every time.
I was about to type “I’m lucky.” But then, I don’t think so. I think sharing this work is simply right and fair. Yes, Andy works all day. But so do I. It’s often joyous work, yes. I know Andy feels slightly jealous when Sophie’s running around the house, screaming with excitement about going to the Children’s Museum as he’s headed off to the office. But I also know for a fact he doesn’t want to trade places. And when I’m not diapering or feeding or finding Sophie who always hides in the same place (behind the curtain) or shaking a noisy toy above a baby’s head or reading children’s books or loading the van or unloading the van or rocking, rocking, rocking, I’m cleaning the kitchen or folding laundry or running the vacuum or sweeping the porch or sending a freelance-related e-mail. And OK, sure. I check Facebook. I watch news programs while doing all the above in the morning. I flip through a magazine while Sophie takes a bath. But I don’t get lunch breaks. Or coffee breaks. Bathroom breaks, yes, but they’re always accompanied by at least one child.
Soon James will surprise us with a 10pm to 5am stretch. And then, someday, they’ll hopefully sleep like Sophie—8pm to 8am (we can only hope!). Eventually, this will all be a memory. But a better one, I think, because we did it together. It’s been a shared experience. And I honestly think it’s made our marriage stronger—at a time in our lives when it could have easily become weaker. Plus, I have a handful of hilarious weird-things-Andy-does-while-half-asleep stories to now share with family and friends.
“Pain shared is pain lessened; joy shared is joy increased. Thus do we refute entropy.” —Spider Robinson
Sometimes I sleep with my arms in the air. It’s comfortable, really!
“In dreams, we enter a world that’s entirely our own.” —Steven Kloves
