midnight flux
If there's one thing I've learned in my almost-one-year of motherhood, it's that life is constantly in flux. Babies grow, things change on a month-to-month basis, and just when you think you've got it (sleep, feeding, etc) settled and think you can relax, everything changes again. Now, for an old stick in the mud like me, these constant changes make me dizzy and frustrated. I like to have things under control, and I value peace and constancy more than variety.
Take last night for instance, when The Bun woke up at 1.30am from what was apparently a deep sleep, sobbing like there was no tomorrow. I picked him up and he immediately laid his head on my shoulder, which meant that he was actually still sleepy; otherwise, he would be chirping loudly and kicking his legs, wanting to get down on the floor to play. When I tried to put him back in his crib he began wailing inconsolably again, and we started a crazy up-and-down, pick-up-put-down sort of dance, in the middle of the night. I couldn't quite understand why - he was clearly not hungry, his diaper wasn't full, and he wasn't teething (at least I thought not). I guessed that maybe he had had a bad dream (plus he had a busy day before that so maybe he was overstimulated) or that he was feeling deep pangs of separation anxiety in the middle of the night, if that is possible.
While we were doing our up-and-down dance to the sounds of my shushing and his crying, I couldn't help but feel a resentment that had a sharp, desperate edge to it. Why this, now? What was I doing wrong? What if this continued for the next six months? (Oh please no.) I contemplated taking him into bed with me, but I knew deep inside that if I did so, I would end up being even more resentful, not to mention that sleep would be impossible for me because I'd spend all night worrying about him, or being pushed around the bed by him.
By the time I got The Bun calmed down and back to sleep in his crib again, I felt like I had been through the wringer several times over, even though the entire episode must have lasted less than thirty minutes. I spent the next thirty minutes lying wide awake in bed, trying to relax and release my frustrations, wishing that life would just settle down the way it used to be (i.e. no night wakings), and most scarily of all, feeling that everything had gone dark, very very dark, the way it seemed to be in my early weeks with The Bun.
That it took just one short episode like this to rock me off my boat proves that I really don't deal well with sudden changes (or sleep deprivation). This morning, when The Bun awoke and was his usual smiley self, like he had never shed a tear in his life, I looked at him and felt a distance between us, like I was still angry with him for not sleeping well, for having fears and nightmares, for simply being a baby. And then I felt horribly guilty, and stupidly selfish, for having thoughts like that. I had lost sight of myself in one short hour in the middle of the night, I had forgotten how to be flexible, I had assumed that everything would always remain the same.
As I type this the sun is beginning to set, and I have a tiny clenched fist in the middle of my stomach, hoping that tonight will not bring with it another crying fit. I know so many mothers deal with so much more in the middle of the night, that being awake to tend to a crying baby is nothing in comparison, and I have to remember, if my night is pierced through again tonight and all the other nights to come, to keep things in perspective, to just cuddle and comfort The Bun because he needs it, and to remember that everything changes, and will always change.
Take last night for instance, when The Bun woke up at 1.30am from what was apparently a deep sleep, sobbing like there was no tomorrow. I picked him up and he immediately laid his head on my shoulder, which meant that he was actually still sleepy; otherwise, he would be chirping loudly and kicking his legs, wanting to get down on the floor to play. When I tried to put him back in his crib he began wailing inconsolably again, and we started a crazy up-and-down, pick-up-put-down sort of dance, in the middle of the night. I couldn't quite understand why - he was clearly not hungry, his diaper wasn't full, and he wasn't teething (at least I thought not). I guessed that maybe he had had a bad dream (plus he had a busy day before that so maybe he was overstimulated) or that he was feeling deep pangs of separation anxiety in the middle of the night, if that is possible.
While we were doing our up-and-down dance to the sounds of my shushing and his crying, I couldn't help but feel a resentment that had a sharp, desperate edge to it. Why this, now? What was I doing wrong? What if this continued for the next six months? (Oh please no.) I contemplated taking him into bed with me, but I knew deep inside that if I did so, I would end up being even more resentful, not to mention that sleep would be impossible for me because I'd spend all night worrying about him, or being pushed around the bed by him.
By the time I got The Bun calmed down and back to sleep in his crib again, I felt like I had been through the wringer several times over, even though the entire episode must have lasted less than thirty minutes. I spent the next thirty minutes lying wide awake in bed, trying to relax and release my frustrations, wishing that life would just settle down the way it used to be (i.e. no night wakings), and most scarily of all, feeling that everything had gone dark, very very dark, the way it seemed to be in my early weeks with The Bun.
That it took just one short episode like this to rock me off my boat proves that I really don't deal well with sudden changes (or sleep deprivation). This morning, when The Bun awoke and was his usual smiley self, like he had never shed a tear in his life, I looked at him and felt a distance between us, like I was still angry with him for not sleeping well, for having fears and nightmares, for simply being a baby. And then I felt horribly guilty, and stupidly selfish, for having thoughts like that. I had lost sight of myself in one short hour in the middle of the night, I had forgotten how to be flexible, I had assumed that everything would always remain the same.
As I type this the sun is beginning to set, and I have a tiny clenched fist in the middle of my stomach, hoping that tonight will not bring with it another crying fit. I know so many mothers deal with so much more in the middle of the night, that being awake to tend to a crying baby is nothing in comparison, and I have to remember, if my night is pierced through again tonight and all the other nights to come, to keep things in perspective, to just cuddle and comfort The Bun because he needs it, and to remember that everything changes, and will always change.