The Nights, Lately
December 14, 2023
I am exhausted.
I grind the coffee and drop a filter into the basket of the coffee pot. Fill the water. Press Brew.
Up since 1:30 a.m. this time.
Because it’s another night of the youngest, six years old, waking us up, insistent that she see her dad, she can’t sleep, she had a nightmare, she’s hungry, no, actually she’s mad and she’s not going to stop waking us up until she sees her dad, she’s screaming, and now everyone’s awake, and then I’m sitting with her and telling her she’ll see him in the morning and she’s a big girl and she needs to learn how to move from The Red Zone into The Green Zone without sleeping with her parents or holding hands or snuggling until she’s asleep.
I apologize to the other kids and assure them everything is fine. It’s fine. Get some sleep. I don’t know if she’s going to scream again. Hopefully not. I’m sorry. I love you.
I go back to bed. And I go back to bed. And I go back to bed.
But I don’t sleep. I just lie there, waiting for the next knock, the next scream, the next wail, the next kicking of the door.
Then it’s 2:30 and 3:00. And 3:45.
Each time, she wants to see her mom. She cries for her mom. She tells me her mom lets her sleep in her bed. She doesn’t like that I’m being a bully and I’m so mean. I let her rage at me. I’m equally pissed and out of resources, but I let her attack. I tell her that her dad is asleep–even though he’s clutching his pillow in the other room, trying to stay out of it. Once, when I come into the room, she is hiding under a blanket.
Kids.
My alarm chirps at 5:00 and it’s time. It takes effort to sit up. My limbs are heavy and minimally responsive. You could push me over with a nudge.
I trudge to the hallway.
The light is on in her room. I creep toward her door, cringing the whole way. Just the sound of the fan. No stirring. I peek inside. She’s lying face up, passed out, glasses still on her face. I could turn the light off, but it feels like a risk. I close the door.
These nights have been up and down. They were rough, then really rough, then better, and now they are awful. I don’t want the exhaustion to creep into my interactions with her during the day–but I’m sure they do at times. My stream of consciousness is full of I can’t even today. My husband talks to her, gives her the hug she’s been chasing all night long, and she is remorseful. She apologizes. She is clear-headed enough to say she understands and she’s a big girl and she can do this.
But all the apologies don’t erase the utter exhaustion as I face a full work day.
My frustration builds and builds and I don’t share it in words. It comes out in my movements, my facial expression, and my silence. I hate that I’m so full of frustration and annoyance. I know she’s trying her best.
But there’s an impatient voice in my head that undercuts this truth. It screams, Her best isn’t good enough.
I talk about this with my therapist.
What do I do to not be annoyed with her? I ask. I’m not lashing out at her or blaming her or otherwise taking out my frustration on her. But I don’t like my frustration to begin with.
I would be annoyed if I were constantly being woken up at night, my therapist says. Do you think you might be being too hard on yourself? he asks.
The thought hadn’t occurred to me yet.
I’m allowed to be annoyed and frustrated.
It sounds like you’re coping with it in a healthy way, he says.
Well, shit.
Maybe I just don’t like coping.
I don’t want to be crawling through the day because this little person is struggling with growing. I let my own kids cry it out and their sleep issues are minimal. I didn’t create the circumstances that led to this child being unable to soothe herself in the middle of the night.
And yet, here I am.
On the Front Lines of the War with the Insomniac First Grader.
Shields up. Phasers set to stun.
I asked to be sent to these Front Lines because progress on this war has been slow. And somehow, we keep losing ground. The fight has become more fierce lately.
This is hard. Very hard.
But I can do hard. I can do hard all day long.
But it still leaves me depleted by 2:00 p.m. Even with coffee.
And then I’m crawling forward, ready for bed by the time we’re sitting down for dinner.
And then it’s time for the rapid-fire after-dinner tasks of eating, cleaning up, checking homework, baths, and bedtime–and all the arguments and resistance that we meet to accomplish these tasks.
My husband talks to the youngest while saying good night. She promises, no, she will not wake us up. She promises. She knows what to do. She’s going to hug her stuffed kitty. She’s going to look at the clock until she’s tired. She won’t wake us up. But this is Rational Her speaking. It’s not Emotional Her speaking. It’s not the Middle-of-the-Night-and-I-had-a-Nightmare Her.
I try not to think about it as I’m lying there drifting off.
There is no knock all night. Instead, my husband and I dream all night long that we are about to be woken up, a vigilance that we can’t seem to turn off now. It’s its own kind of exhausting.
And then it’s morning again and we’re still tired. But we shower her with praise.
Good job on staying in your bed! We’re so proud of you! What did you do when you woke up? Oh… You didn’t wake up? At all? Well, great job sleeping then.
The day rolls on and we feel hopeful. We can do this. We got this. One night down. We are tired, but not exhausted. We feel every year of our 42 years. (And isn’t 42 the answer to everything?)
We settle in again for bed. The kids don’t argue today. They’re all tired. We remind the youngest that we are proud of her for staying in bed. We also remind her that she still needs to stay in bed if she wakes up. And she’s not going to wake us up. And if she does, it will be me, not her dad walking her to bed and I will not stay to talk, and our door will be locked so she can’t sneak in and try to wake only her dad up, and we’re so proud of her.
We are lying in bed, just me and my husband. I drop a heavy hand onto his, my sign of affection for tonight. He smiles. I’m too tired for anything else tonight. He rubs my head, touches my face.
We talk as I close my eyes. She’s not going to wake us up. She knows. And if she does wake us up, she has to be so desperate. She’s really struggling. Can I be compassionate? Yes, I can do that. But compassion right now means that we want her to get herself to sleep on her own. No giving in on this. Please don’t undo all the work I’ve done. Right? We are agreed. It will be hard, but we will do this thing. Being patient and kind pays off, doesn’t it? It just takes dedication.
This is what we think as we drift off again.
And then there’s the knock.
2:12 a.m.
I feel all compassion drain out of me and the anger rises up.
I feel it. I feel it.
I remember what I have learned this year: Anger is your body’s response to your boundaries being crossed.
I can feel angry. And I can still do the right thing.
I get up. Open the door.
And walk her back to bed.
***
December 21, 2023
She woke up last night. And we didn’t know until this morning. Because she stayed in her bed.
For today, it’s a win.