I brought it on myself, really. Seven months in and after a touch of successful night weaning, and I thought we had it nailed. That was it! My baby slept through! Life could resume as normal. I was even cocky enough to mention it in this blog.
Of course, my baby had other ideas. First the clocks changed, then he started pulling himself up and getting stuck on his feet, unable to get down again. Then he had a cold and then, suddenly, on Sunday night, we were back in newborn territory. An ear infection and fever meant my little man refused to eat food, could no longer bear to sleep alone and screamed blue murder unless he was attached to me like a limpet. I sat in the dark watching films on my iPad (what on earth did parents do before Netflix and iPads?) and complaining on Facebook while he lay like a sack of potatoes in my aching arms. It made me remember the actual horror of true sleep deprivation. It made me feel sorry for all my bragging in front of sleep deprived friends. It made me realise that every parent I know – especially the mothers – deserves a fucking medal.
I thought I knew tiredness. In my youth I was known to skip entire nights sleep in favour of dancing about with glow sticks. I pulled all nighters to scramble essays together. I went to bed at 3 and got up for work at 7. And it was fine. But I’m old as fuck now, and frankly, newborn babies just mess with your head.
Our worst period for sleep was between three and seven months. It got so bad that we became a divided household, with my husband sleeping in the baby’s room and me huddled in with the baby. As darkness fell, I dreaded the night ahead. Because I knew that what little sleep I could get would be snatched away. Because by 3am I would just wish it was morning so I could stop trying. Because I would lie in bed afraid to move in case the little bomb in the crib was disturbed. The only thing that would settle him was milk, and the only milk he would accept was direct from the source.
During that period I hated everyone except the little person who was wearing me out. If I spoke to you at that time, I probably wanted to punch you in the face. If you said you were tired, or busy, or had been out for dinner I’d be filled with jealousy that you had the freedom to enjoy a normal life. If you said I was making a rod for my own back or that I should try food, or sleep training, or a bottle, I hated you even more. And I would challenge anyone to survive on snatched hours of sleep for weeks, months, on end, and not be reduced to the same delirious, venomous state of mind.
It is true, what they say about sleep deprivation. It is a form of torture. It’s also true, what they say, about parenting. That you forget the hard times. I did forget the true awfulness of being so exhausted, until this week, when sickness brought it all flashing back.
Thank God for modern medicine. A few doses of antibiotics in, everyone in the flat has had some rest, and the little man is taking his morning nap in his crib for the first time in days. So I wanted to write this down before I forget. I know this will be the first of many, many periods of sleeplessness. I know that in the future he will get sick again, or stay away for the first time, or go out clubbing, or get into trouble, and I will lie awake for many, many more hours to come. And I wanted to say, to all parents, of children of all ages: You are all heroes.
betabump and beyond 