this is your brain on 2 1/2 years of sleep deprivation

Another shitty morning after another shitty night.

Last week at the market, I saw a woman with her newborn son. Someone asked her if he was sleeping better, and she said, "Not really. He's still waking every two hours. I guess it's just a phase he's going through." He was 10 weeks old.

And because I'm me, I had to share my truth with her, that my son woke every two hours until at least 14 months, and even now doesn't sleep through the night very often. "My son woke up every two hours for -" I started to speak, but I just couldn't go through with it. "... A very long time," I finished weakly. I laboured through Swee'pea's entire infancy believing that a good night's sleep was just around the corner. If someone had told me then that it could be years before I could depend on a four-hour stretch of sleep, I might have been in danger of doing something drastic.

* * *
The stretch of two nights in a row I last blogged about? It lasted a month. A month of being able to stretch out in sleep, of waking up on my own, a month of peace. A month without ambivalence, without constant, unfillable hunger. I was a bit disturbed that we'd done nothing differently, that it was all completely beyond my control. And I knew it was too good to be true, I knew it couldn't last. But with every good week, I thought we were that much closer to putting the sleeplessness to rest. I started to wonder how I would revise the little about me bit here, the bit that says my son is a lousy sleeper. I never imagined we'd have another whole month and a half of shitty nights. And now we're worse off than before, because now I know how good it can be, I know how good *I* can be.

Back when Swee'pea was a baby, I thought the secret to him sleeping through the night would be getting him to fall asleep on his own. That's what all the books said. But I can tell you from personal experience that that is total bullshit. Most nights he falls asleep by himself, but that doesn't stop him from waking up within a few hours and demanding to get into our bed, even if we ourselves haven't gone to bed yet. Then he'll wake up screaming to have his socks put on or taken off or to change his pyjamas, or to find his soother, or give him another soother, just to hold. Sometimes he bellows like an autocrat, "Lie on your back!" (so he can rub my belly more easily). Sometimes he screams for reasons I can't figure out.

Last night at 4:30 am, he was screaming for socks (his dad had taken them off when he changed him out his wet diaper and pyjamas), and I lost it (not the first time). I yelled at him: "Stop screaming! If you're going to scream, do it in your own bed. Mommy and daddy's bed is only for quiet indoor voices." The middle of the night is not a good time for me; I think all my night-time patience dried up with my milk. These days, however, after so many interrupted nights, the daytime isn't great either. I'm resentful and impatient, I yell at the slightest provocation and disengage at the first opportunity, running to the computer for some kind of connection, some kind of relief, but never quite finding it.

I find myself rationalizing my daytime distance the way I did when he was a baby. That he's chosen to demand my attention while sleeping and he doesn't demand it while awake. Or that it's just until I finish Buffy, then life can get back to normal. But I think Buffy is just a friendly escape.

So... please help. Give me your best advice. How can I get more uninterrupted, solitary sleep?

unprecedented

For four out of the last five nights, Swee'pea has slept through the night, all alone. That's two times two nights in a row. He has never, ever slept through the night in his own bed two nights in a row. It's such a treat to cuddle while awake, taking our time to reconnect and greet the day, instead of the nocturnal cuddles and immediate leap to consciousness.

You'd think I'd be Ms. Calm after all that uninterrupted sleep, but I am not. Last night, just before I fell asleep, I heard a jet fly overhead. It made that freaky whistling sound that I associate with plane crashes in the movies. For one irrational instant, I wondered if it was going to crash into our house and I felt a jolt of panic. But I caught myself: this is just because I'm stressed out. The more stress I feel, the more panic and anxiety I experience (AND the more ice cream and beer I consume). I have to remind myself that the world didn't suddenly just get a lot more dangerous.

Sugar D leaves first thing tomorrow morning for six days in California on business. I have a final walk-through of the new house on Monday afternoon and the electrician is coming to give us a quote on some work we need done before we move in. We take possession of the new house on Tuesday afternoon and I have one day to paint our bedroom, rip up carpet in two rooms, and remove the baseboards before the hardwood installers come. Sugar D comes home on Friday night, just in time for two days of intense packing and one day of intense moving. And that's just what I planned.

What I didn't plan was for Sugar D to crash the car yesterday while he parked it and I got a money order for the lawyer, right before our appointment to sign all the g.d. papers (this was after the whole daycare dilemma and tour -- which we have to decide on by Monday, also unplanned). Sugar D wasn't hurt at all (thank goodness!) and the other car wasn't damaged. But our car is looking a lot like toast. We just got a quote to repair it: $2000. Our insurance agent is unavailable until Monday so I can't find out what our insurance policy covers, what our deductible is, or what a claim like that will do to our premiums. So apparently I have to fit all that decision-making and coordinating in between all the other bullshit I'm dealing with next week. Of course it's not bullshit, but it's feeling just a touch overwhelming.

This morning at the market, I saw a guy from the drop-in centre. He's taken to hugging me hello, I don't know why. But we tend to see him a lot when we're out and about. Anyways, he's having to stay at the men's shelter while his wife stays at the women's because he lost job and they got evicted, all within days of each other by the sounds of it.

I'm feeling so overwhelmed, I almost bailed on the drop-in this afternoon so I could get more stuff done, but then I thought of that guy and wondered what he'd think if I didn't show up after he just saw me this morning. I imagined explaining my problems: my husband's going away and we're buying a big house and our 2006 Toyota needs to be fixed and I have to arrange insurance, and wah wah wah. Um yeah, a little embarrassing.

I can handle this week; I just don't want to. And we can delay the car fixing if we need to because we still have our friends' car. So I'm going to the drop-in momentarily.

snips and snails

Friday night I dreamed that I had two more boys in such quick succession that I couldn't even blog about them. I was so guilt-ridden that my life had exploded and I hadn't even notified the blog. A few nights before I dreamed someone else I knew was pregnant with three boys.

Yesterday morning at the Farmer's Market, I met a man with two kids. He asked how old Swee'pea was, and I told him, then asked how old his two were. He thought for a moment, then started rhyming off ages: 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, and almost 4 (or something like that. I might have stuck an extra kid in there). He only had his oldest and his youngest with him.

"Wow," I said. "That must have been a BUSY five years."

"It was."

"It makes me shiver just to think about it... I found that infant year so hard, I can't imagine doing it over and over."

I think this may have been the wrong thing to say. I meant it is as praise and admiration, but I think I offended him.

"Oh really? We didn't find it bad. We had a lot of fun."

The conversation died.

I think I'm getting more and more PTSD about the whole infancy thing as time passes. And this is fucked up but I've drifted away from the friends who had their first baby when I had Swee'pea and who have since had a second child. I feel a little betrayed, to tell the truth, like they've gone to the Dark Side. And I don't know how to relate to the enormity of having a baby AND a toddler. It's stupid I know, but I think my memory of that first year might be getting worse as times goes on. My comment to the man at the market said nothing at all about the joy and love and miraculous expansion of my world.

Swee'pea woke up several times last night, upset and calling for me. The first time I'd just discovered Punk Rock Mommy's blog for the first time (too late) and my eyes were red and sore from crying. So I laid down next to Swee'pea, full of sadness for children who have lost their mothers far too soon, and for mothers not getting to see their children grow. And I did as she said and cuddled Swee'pea. I wrapped myself up in the simple beauty of his eyelashes resting on his soft pale cheek.

I ended up spending the night in his bed, and returned to my bed in daylight. Moments later he was crying for me again, and he came into our bed, where he continued to cry and kick and demand access to my belly. After the whole night at his service, I felt grumpy and claustrophobic and didn't do a very good job of "explaining" to him that I needed a break from his scrabbling hands. I always feel like a lousy mother in these moments, but I rationalize that it's important to learn to respect other people's boundaries.

I fell back to sleep after Sugar D got up with Swee'pea. My dreams were anxious and restless, full of wild dogs snarling and snapping to get at two young children who weren't mine but who I had to protect, burning cars, and angry and alienated people like a Mad Max movie, all in another country that looked remarkably like the landscape of my childhood. I'd become separated from Sugar D and there was no way we'd be able to catch the flight that would take us away from the chaos. I woke up with the realization that I was on my own and unable to get home.

* * *

This morning when I arrived at the Drop-In Centre, a boy was sleeping with his head on the table. The back of the centre with its computers and couches was closed because someone stuck playdough to the ceiling and didn't clean it up. The boy was all elbows and angles and the table couldn't have made a nice pillow. I'm quite certain he was well and truly asleep, not just dozing. I assumed he was sleeping off some excesses of last night. I try not to make assumptions about people here but I can't help my curiosity and eye for details, and some things are just a reality.

When he came up to the counter after he woke up his eyes looked kind of vacant, and occasionally his slow words slurred. It took him a long time to answer my "Do you want sugar in your coffee?" He had scrapes and scars on the backs of his hands and forearms that made me wonder if perhaps he used heroin. Once upon a time I would have thought that was impossible in this small quiet town, but not anymore.

Later, M came in. Last time I saw M he told me that he'd once been very close with the young woman whose dead body police found in a park a month or two ago. Her story had been in the paper: 29 years old, history of psychiatric problems and a conviction for possession of crack. When I read it, I figured at least a few people at the Drop-In Centre must have known her, but I wouldn't have thought it was M.

When he laid eyes on the formerly sleeping boy, M exclaimed and hugged him hard. "I'm just so glad you're still alive!"

Later still, the boy was sleeping at the table again. As I watched his eyelashes flutter lightly on his cheek, it struck me that he was someone's son. He was so young, it couldn't have been that long ago that someone had gazed at his eyelashes resting on chubby, unmarked cheeks like Swee'pea's. Or maybe it was. Maybe nobody's ever done that before... who knows.

I'm glad the boy has someone who's glad he's still alive.

Headline News

Sin Flamed

Blogger/Photographer/Mother Cinnamon Gurl was flamed at a small online photography site that uses members’ images and stories to publish a print magazine. Sin had adapted a blog post for submission to the magazine and within hours, a member who has posted no photos or stories, asked “So what ? I mean, just going downtown, find a homeless, take a photo, speak a little with him, and then ?”

Despite irritation and disappointment, Sin simply replied, “What would you prefer?” with little expectation of a response. Instead, she will just remain peeved for the rest of the day, forever wondering exactly what the person’s problem was with her work.

Editor's note: Flamed may be a bit of an exageration but forgive her, she's never had a remotely negative comment before.

Toddler Found Alone in His Very Own Big Bed This Morning

A two-year-old boy was discovered alone in his Big Bed this morning. It came as a pleasant surprise for his parents because although he’d been very excited about moving the Big Bed into his room on Sunday and sleeping in it, he’d also been very clear that the bed was for him AND his mama. This is the first time he’s slept through the night by himself since probably August, and it came after he fell asleep by himself too. His parents are tentatively overjoyed, anxious not to raise expectations (or probability of jinxes), but enjoying the moment nonetheless.

Hapless Husband Can’t Start Car and Gets Key Stuck in Ignition – Must Walk Child to Daycare in Small Umbrella Stroller Across Slushy Sidewalks Because Bigger Stroller’s Lock is Frozen or Jammed; Resorts to Internet for Solution to Key Removal Later

The headline says it all, really, and I can’t be bothered to report all the stupid details.

Deadbeat Driver Forced to Cough Up

A stupid person who shall remain nameless was painfully reminded of outstanding parking fines yesterday. It all started when she called the city about a parking ticket she found on her car when she'd been granted an exemption and they pointed out that it was because her license plate didn't have a valid sticker. "I thought the ticket was referring to a parking sticker... I totally forgot that my birthday meant I needed to renew my plates!" said the unnamed stupid person.

It got worse though, when she went to renew her plates and was told there were a lot of fines on the car. "I'd forgotten about those parking tickets last spring, and I figured they were about $100, $150 max. But from the tone of the clerk's voice, I wondered if it could possibly be as high as $300." Guess again... the fines totalled $566. The stupid person had no choice but to pay up.

And You Didn’t Ask But…

A small piece of advice to people who wear ear pieces for their cell phones instead of holding the phone to their ear: If you are arguing heatedly on the phone and gesticulating wildly in a public space, you may want to indicate somehow that you are talking on the phone, otherwise I may fear for my personal safety. If you do not have a cell phone and are arguing with someone nobody else can see, as you were… I’ll just hang back a bit.

Tomorrow's the Last Day to Vote!

Don't forget to vote for Sin. (If you want to... if you already have, many thanks...)

random round-up

My insurance agent has posters on the wall that I imagine are intended to inspire.

The poster nearest me features a photograph of sunbeams filtering through several tall evergreen trees in the mid-ground. Your eye starts at the sun and follows its beams down to the foreground, where there is a flag stuck in a golf hole. Then you notice that the green is covered with silvery frost, and there are green footprints like random stamps. The footprints concentrate around the flag.

Underneath the photo is the word SUCCESS in all caps, followed by a message in smaller type: “Some people dream of success… while others wake up and work hard at it.”

I’m struggling to connect the image and the words, to decipher how the image represents success, and working hard at it. I guess it’s a morning scene, with the light frost and lowish sun. But a golf course? I’ve heard of the cliché that all major decisions and negotiations are made on the golf course, but it’s really a leisure activity in my books, and an exclusive one at that. I don’t like golf, and I don’t like the amount of water and chemicals required to maintain a pristine green. It seems like an awfully good way to ruin the planet. But that’s besides the point, I guess. Are the footprints meant to represent the people "working" while the rest of sleep, away from this hive of productivity?

It occurs to me that this poster is not so much to inspire as to placate those already conventionally successful, to comfort: don’t feel bad about being rich when so many are much, much poorer, because poor people just haven’t worked as hard as you.

The other poster, over the agent’s computer shows a photograph of a misty morning farm scene; maybe there was snow. The details are foggy, literally in the photograph, and figuratively in my memory. The caption is in a cursive sort of font: “Without dreams there is no need to work. Without work there is no need to dream.”

I can sort of get the first sentence, because when I dreamed as a teenager about competing as an equestrian in the Olympics, I still had to shovel shit. But the second sentence? Seems wrong and depressing to me. Still, I suppose there are a lot of people out there doing soulless jobs to pay the bills and their dreams are what keep them plodding away and sane (and hey, both Sugar D and I have been there and done that). But must work always be something that requires escape, even if its only in your dreams? I suppose so… I’ve said it in this very space before that if I became independently wealthy somehow, I’d drop my job in a heartbeat…

What is up with this insurance agency and its hardcore work ethic? What stake does an insurance agency have in people working hard?

***

Is it normal for a two-year-old to have insomnia? Swee'pea just laid awake in bed for hours last night, sometimes chewing his soother, or stroking the wall, or poking and kicking me. It was very annoying and a little distressing to wonder what keeps a two-year-old awake at night when he hasn't had chocolate or sugar or caffeine of any kind.

***

In happier news, I'm one of the five finalists in the Best Photo/Art blog category of the Canadian Blog Awards!! Hurrah! I really didn't expect to make it... but I've checked out a lot of the other blogs and it seems I've been pimping A LOT more than anyone else in the category. Round Two of voting starts tomorrow. I think it's the same as Round One, except there are only five blogs to choose from now. So if I could trouble you a bit more, I'd love it if you could vote for me again starting tomorrow.

In the Best Family Blog category, the category that nearly killed me with so many of my favourite reads and only two votes to spread between them (one at work and one at home), I'm pleased to see that Dani and Beck have both made it into the finals. I'm very sad that Bubandpie and Mad and Bon did not.

a bliss I have never before known

I had no idea of the sweetness of a conventional bedtime, of Swee'pea lying awake but drowsy and all tucked in beneath the blankets, his head cushioned in the sweet divet of a soft pillow, apparently all cool with my announcement that I'm going downstairs.; of watching his heavy-lidded eyes watch my face as it closes in for a kiss on his soft soft face; of whispering the words, "Night Night," and knowing that I am leaving the room. I have no guilt, since he's had 20 minutes of walking back and forth with Dada and 15 minutes of lying in bed with Mama first.

He asks for milk as I straighten up, and because it's been a while since he used that as a stalling tactic and he did have some salty things for dinner, I get it for him without argument. I watch him drink, repeat the soft kiss and Night Night whispers, and walk down the stairs in perhaps the most blissful silence ever, apart from the creaking wood.

It's 10 pm, and I haven't heard from him since. This is second such moment in our lives, both within a few days of each other.

No jinxes please... I've been knocking on wood all over the place, but I had to make a record.

Letter to Swee'pea: 23 months old

Dear Swee'pea:



Today you are 23 months old. This month, I can no longer deny, you have become strategic. You've known for a long time that you can influence events, you can make things happen. First you did it with signs and then you learned the finer precison of words. But now you are learning how to equivocate. Bedtime has become a bit of a battleground, as has dressing. You will stop at nothing to delay bedtime, asking for snacks and milk. The first time, I suspected you weren't actually hungry, but I knew that if you were hungry, you wouldn't sleep well. So I took you to your high chair and plunked some noonoos (your absolutely favourite food: any kind of pasta) in front of you. You looked at the food and smiled a triumphant and mischievious smile at me. You took about 15 minutes to eat maybe 10 small noodles, despite my warnings and threats and ranting about the Boy Who Cried Wolf.

Similarly, I have discovered it's much easier to get you dressed if I give you choice. You battle the concept of wearing a shirt much less if I let you choose between the orange shirt and the blue one, the turtle neck or the t-shirt. Now, however, you're onto me. This week, when I asked you to choose between the red socks and the gray ones (a bit dangerous in itself because you've been showing an obvious preference for all blue socks all the time but we were out of clean blue socks), you wanted the red. As soon as I brought the red socks near your feet, you screamed for the gray. And, surprise, surprise, when I went to put the gray socks on, you screamed for the red. This went on for some time until I finally had to be the heavy and tell you that this was your final choice. Period. End of story (I repeated myself a number of times to give you fair warning). Then it devolved into the wrestling match that typified our dressing sessions before I started giving you choices. The wrestling match was followed by intense screaming grieving, and finally a long cuddle before you accepted the socks on your feet.

I was planning to spend a significant portion of this letter complaining about your sleep - the lack of it, or more accurately your inability to fall asleep before 10 p.m. It's been going on for a week and it's seriously damaging my sanity. But, I've been going through my photos from South Africa and I came upon a photo that made me realize how far we've come in the sleep department.


This used to be our reality. I don't think I was as grumpy as I look in the photo - I think I was trying merely to look pensive - but maybe I was grumpy. Because when I zoom in on the photo I can see a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

Now, you take all your naps in the crib, unless you fall asleep in the stroller, and it doesn't usually take long to get you down in it, asleep. Back when that photo was taken, you were waking at least every two hours a night, sometimes more often (I think you were getting molars). Although your bedtime is proving extremely difficult at the moment, you mostly sleep through the night, albeit in our bed. All this to say I will shut up about the bedtime thing (although, if you could make it better, I'd be in a lot better frame of mind... think about it?).

This month your language has taken another leap into the galaxy of compound nouns: garbage truck (bobo da!), newspaper (newww bobo), papertowel (bobo wawa), vegetable soup (baba Boo) etc. You've also discovered adjectives and possessive pronouns. Everything is BIG these days, from plates to spoons to blocks to your poops (I think the daycare taught you that one). Your utterance of the word "my" is usually accompanied by a wounded, hard-done-by look.


Kind of like this. I asked you if perhaps you wanted to switch out your sweater vest for a full sweater, and you declined looking hurt that I would even suggest such a thing.



Christmas just passed and last week we brought your beloved tree down and put our new decorations away. The tree is sitting on our snowy front lawn and I worried about how you would cope with us throwing it out there. Mostly, you've been ok, although every time we come home and leave, you always talk about the tree and how we took the tree down (dee da) and we'll get another one (nana dee) next Christmas. (I don't think you really get the concept of next Christmas though.)

You've been enjoying your Christmas presents, although I've already learned the downside of them (they're a lot of small pieces that make lots of noise when the big box is emptied quickly on the floor, or when you rattle pieces around in a metal collander as if you're panning for gold). We got you a big box of lego blocks, a bag of toy vegetables that you can cut into pieces and peel and then put back together, and a tea set. You love them all and sometimes even combine them to serve vegetable tea or cut blocks. I didn't quite realize that the vegetables came with a toy knife, or I didn't realize quite how disturbing it would be to see you playing with your knife. More than once you've played at stabbing us, so we try not to encourage the knife play. You are an attentive server of tea, promptly asking us if we'd like more as soon as we've taken a sip. And you are not easily distracted from your quest to fill everyone in the room with pots and pots of imaginary tea. It's quite amusing really.



Some nights after you (eventually) go to bed, we will discover a cache of toy vegetable pieces in a collander under your high chair or a line of toy tea cups all nicely ordered along the vent. Except that hasn't happened in days (the bedtime part). As I write this you are still awake. The usual walking back and forth to music didn't work once again, so now your dad is lying down with you in our dark room. I've heard you crying for me several times -- oh! here you go again -- but I can't come to you. I have an angry snake curling around in my belly. If I lie down with you, it rises up and makes me into the kind of mother I never want to be. One who snaps with almost no provocation, one who reacts angrily to every little thing. It's almost feeling like a panic disorder, these moments when you won't sleep and won't leave me alone, and I feel like I will never escape.

It scares me that I want to escape motherhood sometimes. Makes me wonder if perhaps I'm one of those women after all -- one of those mothers who abandons her child(ren) forever, or simply buries herself in other work, barely sparing a distracted hug or chuckle or pat on the head for her child(ren). Not that I'm going to do it right now, just sometimes I see clearly that I could become - permanently - the kind of mother I really didn't want to be. I had one moment when I thought maybe you would be better off without me, that I'm not good enough for you because I'm so angry. I imagine that's how mothers who abandon their children feel too.

I don't know why I'm so angry. So much of my life is really quite pleasant, including you. I just don't seem able to appreciate it at certain moments that overwhelm me with little warning. It used to be that at the points I knew I just couldn't take anymore, you would suddenly sleep well, and the edge I was perched on would recede to a safer distance. This has not been the case the last few nights. I hope these moments aren't all that you remember of me. I hope that overall, you find comfort and love in your memories of me. I hope things get better really soon.

I'm sorry I've spent so much of this letter going on about me and your lousy sleep habits, but they are a part of you, as am I. And besides, if you're reading this, surely we did something right?

Love Always,
Mum

SOS

We have a nightly routine. After dinner, I go run a bath for Swee'pea, and Sugar D sings a silly song about "Run dee tub, run dee tub, Mama, run dee tub." We both give Swee'pea his bath and wrastle him into pyjamas, then we bring him downstairs, turn on Swee'pea's sleep playlist and Sugar D walks him back and forth to sleep while I go upstairs and read. For a long time this was great. Swee'pea would fall asleep in five to 20 minutes, go down in his crib no problem and sleep at least until we went to bed but usually later. This was also often the only time I would read a book instead of blogs. Maybe one or two days a week it wouldn't work and we'd let Swee'pea stay up later (often once he took a poo he'd relax for sleep), and it was ok. I stayed calm and philosophical knowing that the next evening he'd go down fine.

Now, however, it's not working so well. Now, him falling asleep with a few minutes of walking is the exception rather than the rule, and if he does, most nights he wakes up and demands to come out of the crib before falling back to sleep eventually at least once . I am neither calm nor philosophical about it. Now, when I go upstairs to read, I find myself tensely listening to what's going on downstairs, shoulders up around my ears. If I hear Swee'pea chatting, I know it's not going to end well and I start to have terrible, black thoughts. The worst if it's all quiet and I can only hear a faint whishing of Sugar D's feet on the laminate floor and I start to think that it will be ok, that Swee'pea's going down. Then suddenly Swee'pea will burst forth with some monosyllabic pronouncement, and all will be lost.

I'm kind of surprised with just how black my thoughts can get on these evenings, because in the day I'm mostly pretty happy and enjoying Swee'pea's company. When Swee'pea won't sleep, my thoughts veer towards the near-suicidal, seeking escape from my whole life and finding no way but one. I also get angry, wondering why I got saddled with this non-slash-high-maintenance sleeper. Often, when Sugar D admits defeat, I take it out on him, expecting some magical baby whispering power of him and wishing he were more like Beck's husband who just puts the kids to bed. I don't feel good about myself in these moments and my self-criticism cuts three ways: 1) that I can't get my kid to bed and 2) that I can't handle an extra couple of hours with my son, that I'm so needy and demanding to require two hours without him every day and 3) that I yell at my husband in front of my toddler son. This was not the kind of mother I wanted to be.

My new nephew is three months old and everything he should be at that age: rolly poly goodness and smiles. He also sleeps through the night already and that news, I'm ashamed to admit, pierced me with jealousy. When he was a newborn, I had lots of memories of Swee'pea's newborn days. But the last time I saw him, I couldn't really remember Swee'pea as a three to six-month-old. Those months were the months when I was obsessed with trying to get him to sleep in his basket and later his crib. I was relentless and was sure that if I just did the right thing, he would sleep in a bed without me. I thought it must be my fault, and as a result I ended up missing those gorgeous rolly poly days. He was seven months old before I finally just accepted his sleep habits and put him in the sling so I could at least blog during his naps.

It's been a couple months of regression, I think, not counting that very anomolous and lovely one night. Lately, we've taken to lying down in our bed with Swee'pea to get him to sleep, and that works, mostly. But sometimes it takes hours and our evening is gone anyways by the time he falls asleep. I'm back to thinking that while it may not be my fault, it's my responsibility to find solutions. The only thing I can think of is to get him a big boy bed and baby proof the upstairs so we can lay down with him and the leave him in his bed. But he seems a bit young to me... so I turn to you, dear readers, for ideas. How do you get your high-maintenance sleepers to bed? How old were your kids when you put them in big beds and were there any surpises? I've also wondered about finding or making story books about kids staying in their own bed or learning to fall asleep on their own. Any tips?

* * *

Sorry for my recent blogligence -- blame Harry Potter. I'm still keeping up with most of your blogs, I'm just not commenting. But I'm well into the seventh book so I should be back to good blogizenship soon.

gifts

Today is a brilliant day, and not just because of the sunshine. Last night, Swee'pea went to sleep at a reasonable hour and for once did not wake up before Sugar D and I went to bed, where we stretched across the vacant expanse between us and luxuriated in the sensation of being able to choose whatever position you please to fall asleep, with no small elbows or heads or feet poking in the way. It was a sensation we were able to enjoy all night long, for the first time in months. And, possibly for the first time in Swee'pea's life, I woke up all by myself, and went downstairs to read (I'm more than halfway through the Goblet of Fire), by myself, until Swee'pea woke up around 7:45 a.m. It was an incredible feeling of unprecendented restfulness.

* * *

To go to the playground in the park, we always cross the covered bridge, constructed entirely of wood right down to its square pegs. Some of its boards are loose, and when wheels cross them, they sink and rise in turn, sounding out bass notes. This morning, I heard fragments of a woman singing on the wind, rising above the percussion of the loose boards behind us. She kept singing as she passed us, and her voice was beautiful and a little haunting. She was peddling an old, bright green bicycle that rattled along like cymbals, and she wore a royal blue toque with two peaks like pigtails, red mittens, a burgundy coat, and flourescent orange tights. As she clattered off the bridge and up towards the university, I couldn't help but imagine I'd just seen Bjork on a bike, or heard Pippi Longstocking sing. I felt like I'd been given a gift, the kind of gift you don't know you want until you open it and feel a warm glow.


(not today - this picture's from August, but you get the idea)

Notice

Wright Hassal Law Offices
509 Main Street
G-Town, Ontario

To: Swee’pea, (hereinafter, “The Lessee”)

On Behalf of: Cinnamon Gurl and Sugar D (hereinafter, “The Lessors”)

Dear Lessee:

On this date of October 29, 2007, in G-Town, Ontario, The Lessors recognize that you have the benefit of squatters’ rights, since the gap at the centre of the queen-sized bed at 153 Cardamom Lane, Lot 30, Concession 42, in G-Town, Ontario, (hereinafter, "the Premises" was vacant when you began habitation there, and they have made no effort to remove you from the Premises.

Until now.

Please find attached a lease agreement, subject to the Landlord Tenant Act, to govern your occupation of said habitation, with the following conditions. The Lessors are very generously not requesting rent money from you. Rather, they require you to cease and desist with your violent behaviour while you are on the Premises. They have grown fond of you and wish to pursue a peaceful settlement to the recent disappointing turn of events.

Lease Commencement Date: November 1, 2007

Full Service Rent: $0

Terms of the Agreement:

1. Between the hours of 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., The Lessee will not partake in any violent behaviour, intentional or otherwise, in the common area of the Premises, including but not limited to: kicking, thrashing, flailing, flinging, poking, pinching, grasping, pushing, smacking, hair-pulling, or other actions that cause bodily harm or loss of sleep to The Lessors. Such actions outside of the specified hours will be governed by the Parental Agreement already in force.
2. The Lessee will not lie horizontally across the Premises while both Lessors are present.
3. The Lessee bears sole responsibility for the safety and whereabouts of the oral pacifier (hereinafter the “dudu”). The Lessee may wish to consider allowing the clip-on strap thingie to be attached to his person such that the “dudu” will not fall off the bed in the middle of the night.
4. The Lessee may cuddle or gently touch The Lessors for comfort at any time, so long as the Lessee causes no pain, bodily harm, or sleeplessness.

If you do not agree to and abide by said terms, The Lessors are not afraid to pursue an Action in Ejectment under the Land Registration Act, 1992 to remove you forcibly from the Premises.

Sincerely,

Al Wright
Partner
Wright Hassal

sleepless

It's after midnight and I can't sleep. Between Swee'pea's feverish barking coughs and sweaty little body pushing me off the bed and overheating me and my racing mind (Sugar D has a second interview next week for the local job -- Hurrah!) and a crazy hard deadline that I couldn't get as much done on because of Swee'pea's illness and wondering if I'll have to stay home again tomorrow since Sugar D can't stay home tomorrow when he needs a day next week for the interview... ugh. It seems to me that the medicine isn't working on Swee'pea's fever. When I finally surrendered my four inches of bed and got up, you know what the feverish leach did? He moved back into the centre of the bed. Oh, the irony.

Last night we found ourselves driving south in the moments right before twilight. The setting sun was to our right, a blaze of irridescent fuschia streaking up from the horizon fading as we drove. Above and ahead of us the sky was gray, nearly colourless, as if the glory in the west had bled the rest of the sky of its colour, gravity and the sun pulling it to the other side of the earth. As the sunset faded to a silvery orange, the indigo grew up from the east, deepening the sky above us with night until eventually it consumed the final faint residue of day in the west. It is reassuring to be reminded of the earth's orbit and constant rotation; it is good to remember that I am not the centre of the universe, as much as it may feel like it.

* * *

In other news, Swee'pea appears to be categorizing people along lines of gender and age. Either that, or my interpretation of his language is. He's been calling his Grandpa Bapa for quite a while, and I was kind of embarrassed when he started exclaiming, "Bapa!" at every tall, gray-haired man wearing a hat and glasses he encountered. Surely he knew what his Bapa looked like?

Lately, though, I've noticed him exclaiming, "Mama!" when we encounter a young woman and, "Dada!" when we encounter a youngish man. I KNOW he knows those people aren't really his Mama and Dada, so it's begun to dawn on me that perhaps he's just noticing that they are people that bear some resemblance to us. He's been obsessed with babies, but now I've noticed he exclaims, "Bebe!" when we see anyone under about 12 years old.

I'm not sure what all this means in the grand scheme of things, but I find it fascinating.

* * *

We went to see my brand new nephew this weekend, and the sight of Sugar D holding a brand new baby again set my ovaries atwitchin'. But only for a moment. He's just SO tiny and fragile and wobbly that I felt nervous again. I think maybe a newborn has to be my newborn to make me feel all in love. When we arrived he was sleeping all by himself, just sleeping, and I remembered how Swee'pea NEVER slept by himself at that age (in fact, it's still a relatively rare occurence). I have always thought it was because Swee'pea was a natural-born lousy sleeper who needed physical closeness. But now I'm not so sure. I wonder if it's because after his distress during my labour and all that fear for his life we just couldn't leave him be; we couldn't trust him to just live, his little chest rising and falling, without our constant watchfulness.

The post we've all been waiting for

Milestone Reached in New Sleep Study

G-town, ON -- A groundbreaking study at the University of G-town shows that if a child waits long enough to sleep through the night for the first time, the parents won't really notice or or care or know for sure if the child actually slept through the night.

This finding is the result of a long-term study following a number of families after the birth of a new baby. "All the other babies in the study slept through the night ages ago," head researcher Masala Man reported. "We were just waiting for the last one, and frankly, I was keen to go home. I think we'd all given up hope that it would ever happen in our lifetime."

Fortunately for the individuals but unfortunately for the research, everyone's so exhausted they can't be sure he actually did sleep through the night. He definitely slept in his crib until 5:30 in the morning, and he definitely didn't wake up before the subjects went to bed themselves. But that's where things get hazy. When the boy's father got him at 5:30, he couldn't remember for sure whether the boy had woken in the night.

One thing's for sure though: the boy's mother, known as Cinnamon Gurl, slept through the night! "It's happened a few times actually that I've woken up in the morning thinking Hurrah! Swee'pea slept through the night! But my husband always remembers getting up with him in the night and just settling him in the crib. This morning it seemed like that was the case again, but once my husband really woke up, he said he didn't think he'd had to get up."

This research study is the first of its kind, probably because it's so labour intensive. All the researchers, and especially the parents of this wakeful child, are exhausted. The sad reality is that one night won't even make a dent on 16 and a half months of severe sleep deprivation. Interestingly, the researchers have now decided to continue their study with a change in focus.

"We were all set to go home, but this latest development makes us want to see what happens to this tired family over the years, and how this child sleeps a few years from now. We're not fooled by this kid; I'm sure it was a one-off. He probably won't sleep through the night again for another 16 months. But maybe by continuing this research, we'll be able to help other exhausted families one day."

- 30 -

For more information, contact:
Masala Man, Head Researcher

Summer of Love - Day One (one week late)

Well, our Summer of Love is not off to a blazing start. Last week we had our first day off together. But it was really really cold and gray and windy. So we did something we've never done before: we went to the mall just for sake of going to the mall. We have gone to the mall before, but we always have very particular things we're going to buy, and then we leave as quickly as possible because we don't actually like it much.

But last week we just went to get out of the house without having to brave the cold gray wind. And I discovered that Chapters is actually a pretty kid-friendly place. Swee'pea gathered around a train set and traded/stole toy trains with a bunch of other boys who were mostly older than him but not much bigger. Sugar D and I took turns watching him play with the trains while the other looked at books.

I used to be a total bibliophile, always checking out used bookstores and almost never leaving empty-handed. But when Sugar D and I got together and combined our vast book collections, and we moved into our small house that is bursting at the seems with stuff, I have done a complete 180. Because Sugar D continues to bring books into our house at a rate that our groaning bookshelves and other surfaces cannot keep up with, I have set and follow VERY strict rules for myself. I only read books from the library, making one exception for Fiona Walker books, which I only allow myself to buy if I am about to take a plane ride. I do allow myself to buy other books on occasion, but only if I am absolutely certain that I will refer to the book again and again. I never buy any books on impulse; I must consider carefully whether a book is worthy of being allowed into our house on a permanent basis.

Last Tuesday I did something I haven't done in years -- at least eight: I allowed myself to buy two paperbacks, just on a whim, because they looked interesting. I bought Bill Bryson's The Lost Continent on the strength of the first paragraph: "I come from Des Moines. Somebody had to." (Although I can also be reasonably certain that I will probably lend it out to someone, which is another criterion for allowing myself to purchase a book so that one wasn't a total departure.) The other book I bought is Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure by Sarah MacDonald, mostly because it has a cool cover. And I had to hold myself back not to buy more books.

(26 pages into Holy Cow, I must say I'm impressed and absorbed. She's not afraid to tell it like it is, that India is kinda dirty but somehow she does it with respect... and I think these early pages are setting her up for a turnaround. Hey, her website is pretty cool too.)

See, in recent weeks, I have discovered the limitations of my library. Reading blogs and blogging about some of the books I read has re-engaged me in the world of books, so now I don't just go to the library for books on a particular subject or of a particular genre, and I just take what I can get. Now I go to the library in search of specific titles and authors, and more often than not I have been disappointed. So I think I may have to relax my policy.

Anyways back to the Summer of Love: I bought some books I didn't plan to, then Swee'pea got cranky so we went home. We went for a blustery walk not fit for June later, and that was just about it. Today is my first weekday off since then, and Sugar D has been working on cover letters for job applications and then we cleaned the house when the cleaning woman arrived so that she could actually clean*, and now I'm blogging.

Two things I clearly forgot when I started going on about the Summer of Love: we aren't very exciting people; we like to hang at home. And we're not really into discomfort (as in long car rides with a cranky toddler or a lot of stinky hot outdoor time followed by a long drive with a cranky toddler. Anyways, stay tuned for more tales of teenage mostly housebound adventures as the Summer of Love unfolds.

Oh wait -- I do have more: we've been watching a lot of Lost. When I rented the first dvd I suggested to Sugar D that he might enjoy it too, but he scoffed at me, saying it was just like Survivor. As I watched the first season, he couldn't help but be in the same room from time to time and occasionally I told him bits that I found intriguing. Well by the last dvd of the first season, I busted him (not so) secretly watching from the kitchen. Finally, he admitted that he was hooked too. Last night we finished the last episode of season two; tonight we'll see if the bonus features are any good. (Mr. Echo has now replaced Sayid as my favourite character, but I guess he's probably dead, along with John Locke and Desmond, who I also really like. Boo.)

Swee'pea's been a bit sick -- again! The other day he had a low fever that spiked in the middle of the night to 103.2 -- his highest fever ever. It disappeared the next day and he just has a bit of a runny nose today, nothing major. But last night I woke up in the middle of the night with him crawling all over me and crying inconsolably. As I struggled to swim to consciousness, I imagined Sugar D asking what was wrong with him, and me responding that Swee'pea had gotten it into his head that he had to teach us something, or show us something, like Mr. Echo's dreams on Lost.

Eventually I figured out that that thinking was pretty dreamy, silly really, but it took a long long time to shake it. And even longer for Swee'pea to settle back into sleep, with lots of loud crying and arguing with Sugar D about how to stop it. That's three rough nights in a row, and I'm really starting to feel it.

* The last two times we've had a different cleaning woman who is either deliberately thwarting my toilet paper strategy and trying to teach me to just put the damn roll of toilet paper on the holder myself like a civilized person, or is just NOT a strategic thinker. Faced with two rolls, one fat new roll and one nearly finished roll, she puts the thin roll on the holder and the fat roll back in the package on the floor. Both times she's been here. Has she never heard of optimization?!?

Why am I writing so much about tv?

Because I am in a fog, and I'm only just hanging onto my sanity. I keep reaching the end of my rope, but the thing about motherhood is that you just have to keep going. The only alternative is to run away and start a new life somewhere else far far away and I'm not about to abandon my loved ones (although I gave the idea a bit of consideration last night).

Watching tv lets me escape this very difficult reality. Plus I can do it while Swee'pea toddles around suddenly playful and happy after two hours of screaming through dinner and the bedtime routine, who we think must be really tired but who in fact sleeps for about five minutes after I get him in the crib, then refuses to go back to sleep until about 10. Watching tv is my little rebellion, my way of flipping the bird at Swee'pea Authority, my way of maintaining a teensy bit of control over my out of control child life. I know how parents become compltely overrun by their children, because apparently I am one of them. I can either spend two hours walking back and forth with 30 pounds of toddler in my arms, let him scream in the crib for two hours (we did it once this week and we lasted 20 minutes before he threw up so I'm pretty sure it would be two hours of screaming) or I can let him play till 10 at night while I watch tv and pretend no one else is in the room with me. I am not a good mother right now.

It amazes me how quickly I can go from being really happy and feeling really good about myself to near total despair and feeling trapped in misery. I suspect that an hour or two in the evenings really makes all the difference, that my entire huge and messy life is balanced on that tiny precious hour. It's like that hour is the unicycle wheel under the stuntman's ass that is me, with all my life piled on his head, and either end of his balancing bar, crazy impossible piles that can't possibly stay aloft, but somehow they mostly do. And as long as everything's rolling along tickety-boo, I'm on top of the world, I'm high. Then one small misstep and it all comes tumbling down. And I'm reminded that I am an ass.

I saw on the news the other day that Brad Pitt says that more kids are on the way for him and Angelina, that having kids is the hardest thing they've ever done and the most fun they've ever had. At which I turned to Sugar D and suggested that I would revise that statement to read not fun but joy. But this bad patch right now has very little, almost no, joy to offset the hard.

I keep trying to tell myself Bubandpie's idea that now is when I'm being a really good mother, but I'm not buying it. I'm freaking out. I am not being the mother I want to be. Something really has to change. I need more space, both physical and emotional.

It's more of the same as we went through a week or two ago, I can't remember exactly how long. Screaming child who must be in contact with me constantly, who screams and instead of sleeping thrashes around and clunks his heavy head onto my chest over and over again. Oh -- and with a feverish sick and grumpy husband added in. But I am trying to hold myself back from writing yet another whiney angsty post.

Here is my attempt at injecting humour into the whine: last night after Swee'pea woke up after 10 minutes (I am not exaggerating, I looked at the clock), he went to the bookshelf and started pulling off books and looking through them. The book that absorbed his first? The No Cry Sleep Solution. I would have taken a picture but I couldn't be arsed.

And more irony this morning: me reading it with Swee'pea sleeping in my arms, too exhausted to actually take anything in. Besides, I tried it last summer with no success.

I am having a hard time believing that this hard stuff will actually pass. So I'm putting myself on notice and preaching stillness to myself. I will wait for a week to pass before we make big decisions to try any more sleep training. Things were really good just a month or three weeks ago, without any drastic action on our part. Please please please let us have our evening hours back. Please please please let me be able to sleep without perching on the edge of the bed with constant scrabbling hands at my belly and chest all night long. In the meantime, I will just keep holding on, finding (with some dismay) that my rope actually has another inch.

a new kind of horror movie

Welcome to the House of Ooze. Swee'pea and I are sick with a MISERABLE cold, and Sugar D announced this morning that it's coming his way too. Poor little Swee'pea has been oozing for five days now, and yesterday he woke up with puffy purple half-moons under his eyes that don't look like they're going anywhere soon. Each night seems to involve less sleep and more crying. Last night, I think, was the worst night EVER in the history of Swee'pea (and I'm including all the newborn nights there too). I think he cried for hours, off and on, in half-hour bouts. Then he'd quiet for a bit and we'd think we were in the clear, and he'd be off again, screaming and weeping about something that we had no knowledge of and no ability to soothe. He just sobbed and rolled around between us and thrashed and kicked, all the while his nasty slime spreading across his face and transferring to everything his face came into contact with, mostly my shirt and the sheets (I am doing a lot of laundry).

All night, I kept thinking this is the WORST NIGHT EVER. Sometimes I wondered if I was going to lose my mind, not being able to do anything for Swee'pea and just having to listen to him scream and sob. Has anyone gone crazy being forced to listen to a baby cry without any power to stop it? It could be a psychology experiment. I think I've reached a position of learned helplessness where I just freeze uselessly at the first sound of Swee'pea's screams. This morning when we got up, Sugar D's first sentence was, "I think that was the WORST NIGHT EVER." So it's unanimous.

For five days, Swee'pea has been doing a fair impression of some kind of slimy monster just emerged from the swamp. We try to wipe the twin slime trails that ooze from his nose, but it makes him scream and fight and weep, and I know his poor nose must be raw and irritated. Sometimes it crusts into dark green boulders that block his nostrils, and then Sugar D goes all Hemingway with varying degrees of success. Sometimes we try to soak them out in the tub, but even that isn't 100 percent reliable. Yesterday, after finally snagging a dangly, taunting critter after an hours-long standoff, Sugar D declared victory, "I AM the Booger Hunter!"

All this has made me look forward to Swee'pea discovering that he can pick his own nose. Who knew that it is, in fact, an important life skill? Since I succumbed to the ooze, I have been trying to show Swee'pea that I have to wipe my own nose, that trumpeting like an elephant sometimes helps too, but he's not getting it.

It's really quite revolting the amount of green slime that's coming out of him. This morning, while he nibbled at breakfast, Sugar D was making all kinds of disgusted noises, "He's oozing!" But when I looked, there was just a light crust from all the overnight tears under his nose. Then suddenly the twin heads of some nasty sea creature slime checked out the situation outside, then promptly withdrew back into their homes. Shy, I guess.

I once had a pet clam when I was a kid, and I kept it in an orange tupperware container. Sometimes it would stick out its white slimy foot, and I would feel good, that I was giving it a good home, that it was comfortable putting its neck out like that. If I touched it, it would suck itself back inside the shell in a second. The appearance of Swee'pea's sea creature does not arouse quite the same feelings; in fact, I think it's the opposite.

Also in the last two nights, the slime has apparently begun sliding down poor Swee'pea's throat resulting in disgusting liquidy coughs and gags. It's so gross to hear it must be really bad to experience it. Poor kid. Poor parents.

Can we get an Invasion of the Boogie Snatches please?

thank you

Just a quick note to say thank you for all your supportive comments on my last post, and to let you know that Swee'pea slept last night. He slept in his crib for the first few hours so we had some much needed time to ourselves, and then he only woke twice in the night. And no screaming. Yay!

(Of course, I'm a bit embarrassed at how quickly and easily the change came after my panic, but what can you do?)

Thanks again. Oh, and just in case you missed it, I LOVED B&P's comment and MUST share it here (hopefully it's ok with B&P):

I was thinking yesterday, we feel like good mothers when in fact we're just having a pleasant, easy time. We look at our happy, well-behaved children and tell ourselves look! I can do this. It's when we're feeling like bad mothers - angry, overwhelmed, exhausted - that we're actually being good mothers, doing the hard work, dealing with all the crap.

I think that's just about the most world-rocking insight I've seen in a while.

claustrophobia

I feel really bad writing this; I mean, the poor kid is still suffering the effects of his illness (apparently NOT an ear infection but something viral that is now causing a rash all over his body, which I THOUGHT was a reaction to the antiobiotic -- not only unnecessary but way stronger than would have been necessary if he HAD had an ear infection and the worst one for antiobiotic resistance -- but that's a whole other post) or at the very least the effects of really bad sleep for several days and nights caused by the illness (bad sleep, which, it needs to be said, I am also suffering from), BUT.

Swee'pea is really getting on my tits, literally and figuratively.

Since he's been sick, he's started putting his hands down my shirt and just holding onto my boob. Or lifting up my shirt and rubbing. It started with my belly before he got sick, which I thought was kinda cute, except that he started scratching me and poking me quite hard. But I guess with the closure of the all-night breastaurant, now he figures he'll just hold onto them instead of nursing, whether during the day or night. It feels like he's of the mind that he is just making use of what is rightfully his.

And I don't particularly like that attitude. On the one hand, I know he needs more comfort than usual since he's feeling so rotten, but on the other, I AM GOING CRAZY.

It appears that the doughy contours of my upper body are his blankie... and he can't get enough right now. He screams bloody murder if I go to the bathroom. He screams if his daddy tries to get him to sleep. If he's having a cuddle with me (and when has he not in the last several days?) and Sugar Daddy approaches, he shrinks away as if about to be struck. He screams if, having gotten him to sleep, I try to put him in his crib, then it takes another hour or two to realize that he will not fall asleep anywhere but in our bed. The other night when we finally exhausted ourselves and retired to bed at 9:30, Swee'pea's smile illuminated the space above the stairs and into the upstairs hallway, and we couldn't help but concede victory to his greater stamina. It does not feel good to be so defeated by one who has been on this earth for such a relatively short time.

Once we go to bed, the nights are hell. It's actually gotten worse since Swee'pea's fever broke early Sunday morning. Before he writhed and grunted and woke up a lot, always having to have his head on my chest or my shoulder. Now he just screams continuously for several minutes (like 10 at least) every time he wakes up. Last night was a slight improvement: he only woke up twice, although he screamed and screamed and screamed, and I just laid there with him on top of me, trying not to scream myself or thrust him harshly away from me onto the mattress. Nothing we could do would comfort him.

But the night before was way way worse. He screamed like that just about every hour or two all night long. He's been screaming inconsolably so much that I'm starting to become immune. I can't do anything to fix it, so I've stopped trying.

We adults are not doing well with this arrangement. Not only have we lost that precious evening time that replenished our resources so successfully every day, but Sugar Daddy is dealing with almost constant and loud rejection, being treated like some kind of abuser, and I am dealing with having to do absolutely everything with a 30-pound toddler in my arms who may or may not be screaming in my ear. Right now he is sleeping on my lap while I type this... it's the closest I'll get to a break, so I'm making full use of it.

Well, ok, I got a bit of a break yesterday when I went to work and put him in daycare. I felt badly, because I knew even though he was over the worst of it, he was still really tired and probably a little under the weather. But here's what I felt the worst about: the main reason I did it was because I didn't want to be with him by myself. Yes, I don't really have any sick days left to take and yes I had meetings in the afternoon to attend, but mostly, I didn't want to be with my son.

Friday, one of my normal days off, was awful. The morning was fine, we went downtown and got some stuff for Sugar Daddy's birthday. But when we got home, I expected him to go down for a nap like always and then I would eat my lunch. He wouldn't go down in the crib. It's really bad if that happens when I'm hungry. And I was hungry. We got through it and he woke up and I ate and he melted down while I ate but I finished my lunch and then he slept, although not as much as he needed. And it was because of that awful moment of feeling trapped, having to choose between his needs and mine, that I really didn't want to be with him yesterday.

Oh God. I just know I'm gonna get my first troll for this. Just when I really couldn't handle it. (To the trolls: he was fine at daycare, not himself but still lovely as usual as his daycare provider said. Of course, as soon as we got home, he had the biggest meltdown ever, screaming and screaming and screaming, until finally he settled down and we ate some cheese.)

I really feel like a bad mother. When I feel good, I don't need any reassurance... I don't really need the community of the blogosphere, so I don't bother blogging about those times... but at times like these, when I feel like it would be cruel to bring another child into this family where the mother cannot cope with all the demands, where the mother regularly wants and needs her own space and goes crazy if she doesn't get even a little bit... this is when I need some support, some reassurance that I'm not THAT bad. Am I?

It's not just that I have no personal or mental space; I'm also convinced that he will never sleep in his crib again, that we will never again enjoy two hours in the evening to recharge, that we are right back where we were a couple of months ago, only now we know exactly what sweetness we're missing. Sugar Daddy tries to tell me that it'll probably improve when he's feeling better, but I'm not buying it. I find myself crying in self-pity, wondering, "Why me? Why don't we get to enjoy the rest that parents of independent-sleeping babies have?"

I know rationally, this self-pity is absurd. This is no tragedy. Our child is experiencing a normal, relatively mild illness; he is generally well. We are all well. We are lucky. We have enough to eat and a roof over our heads and lots of good things in our lives. Things could be so much worse.

But I am not capable of much rational thought. And last night I remembered that people die without enough sleep.

I try to regain some perspective and count my blessings. And that's when I really start to worry about my ability as a mother. If I can't ride out this small storm, how will I manage the really big stuff? I've always figured myself a coper, generally resilient with a positive outlook on life and how I can handle its bumps and falls. But this motherhood gig has really shaken that perception.

I still love Swee'pea dearly, I still have moments when I stroke his hair, or his neck or cheek and feel overwhelmed with love. I still feel a thrill when he wraps his hand around my finger, once in a while. But if I try to extricate myself, he starts to feel like an octopus, always more tentacles than I have ways of removing them, and I feel claustrophobic and intensely hopeless. I am so not coping.

twister

Last night, I slept for seven hours straight with no wakings by either me OR Swee'pea. That's the first time that's happened since he was born. Strangely enough, I don't feel as rested as I thought I would. In fact, I feel quite tired, like my sleep debt is so huge that it's only once I start trying to pay it off that I am faced with the enormity of what I've been ignoring for so long.

Incidentally, Swee'pea did NOT sleep through the night, he woke twice, but the wakings were at 10 pm and 5 am and i went to bed as soon as I settled him at 10.

Anyways, when I swam to consciousness this morning long after Sugar Daddy had already jumped out of bed to tend to Swee'pea, I remembered the dream I'd just been dreaming.

A long, long time ago, I mentioned tangentially (is anything I ever write NOT tangential?) that I used to have nightmares about tornadoes. Just so you don't have to click and dig, this is the bit I'm referring to:

When I was about 7, I saw some footage of a tornado at night; it was all red and black. For many years those colours were how I thought of tornadoes. That image, along with watching the Wizard of Oz around the same age or just before, must have made quite an impression because I developed a phobia of tornadoes; my nightmares in adolescence and my early twenties always featured me seeing a twister on the horizon and panicking while I waited to see if it would hit us or our neighbours. I knew I turned a corner when I dreamed that I wasn't scared; I just went down to the basement and calmly waited. I don't have nightmares about tornadoes anymore.

Last night, I dreamed of twisters again. Only this time, I was on some kind of tour, maybe even a storm chasing tour. We (Swee'pea and Sugar Daddy weren't there, it was just me and other tourists, including an old friend) kept being driven to a new farm with a dusty driveway, and every time we got out of the van there was another twister coming. I couldn't see many of them because of all the outbuildings surrounding us, so I never really knew whether we were actually in danger. There weren't any basements to shelter in, and that was kind of the point I think. Our tour guide felt that being in a doorway of an old barn was safer than the van, so every time he notified us of an approaching twister, we each squatted in a doorway with our arms over our heads. Once in a while I'd catch sight of the giant twisting column of destruction and feel a tiny jolt of fear, but mostly I just calmly waited and hoped.

I find it interesting that on the night I had the longest stretch of uninterrupted sleep in nearly 15 months, I seemed to have turned another corner in my anxiety dream motif. I'm not only calm in the face of scary twisters, I am actively seeking that fear and mastering it, deliberately putting myself in situations were I can't keep a close watch on the threat and not hiding from it either.

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Did you see the video of the magical Rheostatics' singalong? Seriously, you should watch it... as Sage said in the comments, it "almost caught the final moment... almost."

One for the record books

Last night, Swee'pea slept for eight (8!) straight hours -- in his crib!!

Sadly, I didn't.

He slept from 8 to 4:15 am.

I went to bed at 10, woke up at 2, looked at the clock to see how long Swee'pea had been asleep. Went back to sleep easily.

Woke up again at 3:30, excited that he was STILL asleep. Had a hard time getting back to sleep as I was getting excited that this was the longest stretch yet and maybe he was gonna sleep right through. Started composing a post about him sleeping through the night for the first time ever, got giddy, etc. etc.

Finally fell back to sleep and dreamed that he DID sleep through the night and I was trying to blog about it but wasn't having any luck coming up with an interesting angle --

Woken at 4:15 at Swee'pea's insistence.

He wouldn't settle in his crib and took at least an hour before he settled back to sleep in our bed. Still, it was better than the two hours of violent thrashing and headbutting and harumphing onto my chest in the middle of the night before.

The night before THAT, he woke up a few times but each time we settled him in the crib and he ended up staying in his crib until 5:45 am. Another personal best!!

So, the nightweaning has been going well, I think.

Edited to add: Don't you just love the baby sleep gods' sense of humour? Not 30 seconds after I hit publish, Swee'pea woke up screaming, and is WIDE awake.

Edited an hour later: He's still awake despite about a hundred miles of walking back and forth. And this post sounds much lighter and hopeful than I feel at these times when he just will. not. sleep. These times when I feel my exhaustion so palpably, when I become overwhelmed with the "Why meeee's?" Surely, we've paid our sleep dues in the last 14 months? Surely we deserve a break?