Coulda, shoulda, woulda
It is 3:17 am. I am sitting in a rocking chair cradling a child who is rapidly outgrowing my lap. My knees are freezing and my arm tingles under the weight of a finally sleeping head. I breath deeply and walk back to the warmth of our bed...again. Maybe this time we will sleep, I think.
This is the fourth time tonight that I have replayed this scene. Something is bothering my child and I haven't the the foggiest idea what it could be. He is not feverish or sick. He does not need to use the bathroom or have a drink of water. He doesn't want to play, he is simply wakeful. I am not.
I am exhausted. The kind of exhausted that aches deep in your bones. I want to cry, to yell, to beg, but mostly I just want to sleep. It has been a long week and this it the third night in a row with an unsettled boy and no sleep for his mother. My patience is wearing thin as I rock back and forth in the cold wooden chair. I want to tell him that it's not fair. I don't care if he wants to be awake, I want to be asleep! I just want him to close his damn eyes and relax. Why won't he just relax? Why is he awake again!? Why is he doing this to me? I feel my own body tense.
I take a slow, deep breath. My mind wanders. I should have stopped rocking him to sleep months ago. I should have told him no, I won't rock you, just to go back to sleep. I should brush his teeth more thoroughly. I should wash his hair more often. I should prepare better meals. I should use a different cloth to wipe his face than I used to wipe the table. I should tell him that I love him more frequently.
I should have taught him how to sleep independently a long time ago. I should have made him figure it out. I shouldn't cater to his nighttime demands. I should make more time for myself. I should shave my legs. I should file my rough heels. I should be more patient, more kind. I should remember to give him his vitamins. I should clean the bathroom more often. I should drink less coffee. I should vacuum my car. I should, I should...
I stop myself, I need to stop. I look down to see big eyes fluttering, fighting to stay open. "Close your eyes baby, relax." His arm stretches up to touch my face. "Hi mommy." "Hi son." "I'm having a hard time." My heart sinks like a stone. Of course he isn't doing this "to me." "I know you are buddy. It's okay, we all have a hard time sleeping sometimes. Mommy will hold you while you fall asleep. Close your eyes, baby." "Okay." Tears well up in my tired, burning eyes and fall to my cheeks as I continue to rock in the dark.
It is 3:17 am and I am sitting in a rocking chair. I many not want to, but right now I need to be in this chair. Right now my freezing knees and perceived inadequacies can wait. Right now my child needs me. I breathe.
I should this and I should that, but you know what, he doesn't care. Being the definition of perfection won't change the way he feels about me. He doesn't want the mommy who always uses a clean cloth to rock him at night. He doesn't want the perfect tooth brushing, always freshly showered mommy to calm his wakeful mind. He just wants me, me. All my imperfections and my hairy legs. My impatience, my boring dinners and my rough heels. Me.
And whether it be 7:00 am, 3:00 pm or exactly 3:17 am, that is exactly what he is going to get. Because I know that he will sleep independently some day, he will learn to settle himself without me. He will brush is own teeth and wash his own hair. He will pour is own glass of water and take himself to the bathroom. He will read a book or think quietly by himself when he cannot sleep. Someday he won't need me to sleep, someday he won't need me at all, but not today. Today we rock. We rock in the cold wooden rocking chair with freezing knees and the warmest of hearts.
This is the fourth time tonight that I have replayed this scene. Something is bothering my child and I haven't the the foggiest idea what it could be. He is not feverish or sick. He does not need to use the bathroom or have a drink of water. He doesn't want to play, he is simply wakeful. I am not.
I am exhausted. The kind of exhausted that aches deep in your bones. I want to cry, to yell, to beg, but mostly I just want to sleep. It has been a long week and this it the third night in a row with an unsettled boy and no sleep for his mother. My patience is wearing thin as I rock back and forth in the cold wooden chair. I want to tell him that it's not fair. I don't care if he wants to be awake, I want to be asleep! I just want him to close his damn eyes and relax. Why won't he just relax? Why is he awake again!? Why is he doing this to me? I feel my own body tense.
I take a slow, deep breath. My mind wanders. I should have stopped rocking him to sleep months ago. I should have told him no, I won't rock you, just to go back to sleep. I should brush his teeth more thoroughly. I should wash his hair more often. I should prepare better meals. I should use a different cloth to wipe his face than I used to wipe the table. I should tell him that I love him more frequently.
I should have taught him how to sleep independently a long time ago. I should have made him figure it out. I shouldn't cater to his nighttime demands. I should make more time for myself. I should shave my legs. I should file my rough heels. I should be more patient, more kind. I should remember to give him his vitamins. I should clean the bathroom more often. I should drink less coffee. I should vacuum my car. I should, I should...
I stop myself, I need to stop. I look down to see big eyes fluttering, fighting to stay open. "Close your eyes baby, relax." His arm stretches up to touch my face. "Hi mommy." "Hi son." "I'm having a hard time." My heart sinks like a stone. Of course he isn't doing this "to me." "I know you are buddy. It's okay, we all have a hard time sleeping sometimes. Mommy will hold you while you fall asleep. Close your eyes, baby." "Okay." Tears well up in my tired, burning eyes and fall to my cheeks as I continue to rock in the dark.
It is 3:17 am and I am sitting in a rocking chair. I many not want to, but right now I need to be in this chair. Right now my freezing knees and perceived inadequacies can wait. Right now my child needs me. I breathe.
I should this and I should that, but you know what, he doesn't care. Being the definition of perfection won't change the way he feels about me. He doesn't want the mommy who always uses a clean cloth to rock him at night. He doesn't want the perfect tooth brushing, always freshly showered mommy to calm his wakeful mind. He just wants me, me. All my imperfections and my hairy legs. My impatience, my boring dinners and my rough heels. Me.
And whether it be 7:00 am, 3:00 pm or exactly 3:17 am, that is exactly what he is going to get. Because I know that he will sleep independently some day, he will learn to settle himself without me. He will brush is own teeth and wash his own hair. He will pour is own glass of water and take himself to the bathroom. He will read a book or think quietly by himself when he cannot sleep. Someday he won't need me to sleep, someday he won't need me at all, but not today. Today we rock. We rock in the cold wooden rocking chair with freezing knees and the warmest of hearts.
<3
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