I knew going into Motherdom that I would probably be a worrying wreck of a parent. After all, my genealogical roots were firmly planted in the worrying wreck ground. And the first few weeks after Baby Girl was born proved that I inherited this trait. When she slept, I would glue my ear against her door to try and hear her. When that didn’t work, I would go in to see with my own eyes that she was breathing. When it wasn’t obvious enough that she was, I would place my hand on her stomach or under her nose to feel her breath moving throughout her tiny frame.
A few weeks back, Baby Girl, who was sleeping longer stretches, decided she would no longer be doing that and began waking up at 3:30 in the GD morning and because I didn’t want the fury of God — aka her cry — unleashed upon us, I had to go in there. When she was finally asleep again, I’d ever so gently place her in her crib and substitute my arms for small pillows. Then, I’d drop to the floor and crawl out of her room like a Navy Seal. Triumphant. I got her back to sleep and I told myself I had won. Moments later, she reminded me that I hadn’t.
If I’m honest, these nights make me wonder what in the fresh fuckery I was getting into with this parenting thing? I’m not cut out for this. I’m not awake enough for this. I’m not superhuman enough for this.
“UGH!!!! Why won’t this baby sleep?!?!?” I scream to the universe unknown.
“Ohhh,” the Universe responds, “You want the baby to sleep? Why didn’t you say so?” The Universe walks away with a grin like she’s up to something, like she knows something I don’t. But I quickly understand.
Because on the nights BabyGirl sleeps through the night I still wake up at 2:30. And then 3:30. And then 5:30. Not because she is awake but because I am wondering why she isn’t awake. I can’t freaking win.
That worrying wreck root from my genealogical family tree starts to grow sprouts in my mind and asks me all types of crazy questions. Why isn’t she making noise? Why hasn’t she woken up? Is she breathing? Did she smother herself in her baby rolls? Is it too hot and she overheated? Is the air too cold and she froze? Did someone sneak in and take her?
Did someone sneak in and take her?!
Who asks that?
The questions grow more absurd and illogical with each passing sleep deprived moment. I start convincing myself that I need to check on her. It would be irresponsible for me not to. And then I firmly tell myself to stay calm and not get so irrational. My brain has to actively persuade my body not to go into her room and watch her breathe. But I usually end up Navy Seal crawling into her room to check anyway. It’s a fierce struggle.
What I’ve learned is that we can’t win – moms that is. When she doesn’t sleep through the night, I wish to God she would. And when she does sleep, I wish to God I could too.
Thank goodness I have a good eye cream.
P.S. a lost cause and having to deal with a big girl bed.
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