Between a rock and hard place: A story in sleep torture

It seems that mine is a life of sleep deprivation and contorted positions.  Before Lily was born I'd been given stern warning by mothers and women, friends and strangers even to get my rest.  "Sleep now," they'd say,"because it all goes to hell when the baby is born."  How could I have known, a single girl well into my thirties, who'd been able to drop in and out of bed whenever I chose, whose boyfriend/fiance/then husband was still willing to put some tape across his nose and rid himself of the rhinosounds, squeaks, and hisses, and who was still able to put in earplugs because the only thing she'd had to listen out for was, well, nothing, that these ominous warnings would predict a future so bleak that I should have been lying down all day every day?

Last night after a particularly grueling evening suffering with abdominal pain, I was forced to confront the three year old who threw down in an epic overtired, overexcited, pre-bed temper tantrum that went on for over an hour and caused lots of tears and stress for the entire family.  It appears that though she is relatively newly potty trained, Virginie would prefer never to have a pull up touch her little hips, save for during intense #2s, nor would she like to have to brush her teeth two minutes after her big sister.  None of this was shared, however, before the Exorcist-like knock down that took that wide-grinned whippersnapper and turned her into a mean Gremlin that ate way too much after midnight.

We moved from room to room allowing the tantrum to unfold, but never leaving her alone to feel alienated or rejected, though this is exactly how I felt.  I reached for her and held her tight, wrapping her flailing arms and legs in a kind of burrito to try to bring her down.  She turned it up a notch to hysteria.  I tried to dial it down to Zen but got closer to weeping willow.  She finally spun out and collapsed in the bed with me.  She wore no pull up, had brushed her teeth in the dark after her sister, was sweaty with curls stuck to her cheeks, and continued that trembling sigh that signals crazy-wild crying had taken place, and looked as angelic as that little puppy that has torn to shreds your favorite shoes, but is just so cute with the bits and pieces all around her.  I was knackered.  Just wanted to get to sleep.  My poor husband would have to miss his birthday "present" for this evening.

As we drifted off to sleep, exhausted and saddened, frankly, by the evening's turn of events, I started massive, heavy dreaming right away which usually tells me that I too am overtired.  When the spirits overtake me in slumber, provide wild visuals and what I often accept as secret messages, it means Mumma's ass is bushed.  Not sure how long I was lost in outer space when someone, tapped me on the arm to invite me to visit the toilet with her for company.  Lily often asks permission to do the most mundane tasks.  "Excuse me, Mommy, can I please play in my playroom?  May I wash my hands?  Can I go to the bathroom?"  Tonight it was a special invitation to watch her pee and then get in the bed with her to snuggle.  Thank you.  We cuddled up together, she surrounded by cute and cuddly stuffed animals, me lying on the connection point between two twin beds pushed together, with a now moist and cold Virginie rolling into me as though I were an electric blanket. 

Once both girls were fully asleep, I was able to extricate myself by completely flattening my body and slithering to the floor and rolling out the door.  I returned to my own comfortable bed to be confronted by snoring that rocked the walls.  My dear husband has not ever accepted my video proof of his snoring rattling the house and was not going for the pushes, taps, and nose pinches I offered last night either.  I can assure you that if you listen closely at the front door of the house, you can hear this poor sod all the way from our bedroom.  While he insists he cannot make that much noise because he does not have sleep apnea, which he calls ap-nay because he is saying it as one would in French, I have reassured him that of course he does not have ap-nay.  He just has an incredibly loud breathing situation that appears to make him stop breathing for a second and catch his breath again like apnea but is in no way apnea.  Whatever it is, I lay next to him each night with a foghorn ringing my inner ear until I cannot take it any longer and return to the pinch point in the girls' bed.

During our first months in Barbados, Virginie was a tiny little thing, just barely four months old.  Though we'd been wildly unsuccessful getting Lily to sleep in the crib years before, we felt confident that starting the process all over again with a more stubborn, willful child would/could yield better results.  I did manage to get Virginie in the crib, God bless me.  But in order for her to stay there and sleep the night, I would have to lie on the floor on a yoga mat with my hand reaching up to her.  After years of sleeping in Lily's toddler bed, this was a marked step in the wrong direction.  I was beginning to feel like a failure and I was damned tired.  I finally gave in and put two twin mattresses on the floor in the girls' room and slept with them every night.  This ensured at least five hours a night before one of the two people answered nature's clock and woke with the cocks and the baby sea turtles.

I have raised those mattresses with bed frames and a feather bed and carry one of the pillows from my own bed to theirs so as not to feel like a total loser but the truth is I have not had a good night's, seven to eight hour, refreshing, rejuvenating sleep in nearly seven years.  I should have heeded that advice and tried to bank it long ago.  For now it's green juice and hemorrhoid cream on the eyes in the morning and quick cuddles by my captors.  Stockholm syndrome-stylie, I have given in to them.  Every once in a while I close my eyes for a few minutes while sitting on the couch, watching soccer practice, or listening to one of the people regale me with tales of their lives or better yet some crazy detail from one of their favorite television shows, and I think, then say out loud, "Don't tease me.  I'm awake" 

Night night.


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.