Tough love

I held my baby boy tonight and wept alongside him.

The tears, they flowed fast and freely, as I begged, BEGGED him to sleep so that I can finally get the rest that I so sorely needed and craved.

My voice cracked as I told him that I am done with this, that I am so done with this. I am barely functioning as a human being anymore, I explained between sobs, and I am not a good mommy because all I can think of is how tired I am and how much I needed coffee.

Nobody really understands sleep deprivation like a mother. And it’s hard to confide in others because nobody cares and all you get in response is “Oh you poor thing” or “Been there, done that” or “Enjoy this period while they still let you cuddle them”.

I do, really, I do. I try to inhale the baby scent of my little boy as he sleeps even as I am kept awake. And I feel guilty for not enjoying every moment. Because, hey, I tried for two freaking years, didn’t I? And I got what I wanted.

But I am not.
I am certainly not enjoying this extended period of night wakefulness, when I am everything that he needs to go back to sleep. I resent my husband because he gets to snore his way through the night and wake up thinking that the boy had slept well, when I am woken up three, four, five, eight times. I lose my patience with the little man because, COME ON, I JUST NURSED YOU, FOR GOD’S SAKES.

I had really hoped that night weaning and some sleep training would help. And that his joyful, sweet nature in the daytime would translate into an easier transition. But it is not to be.

The crying, oh the crying. I caved, because I am so tired. And I need to drive and work the next day. I caved, because I feel so alone in this battle and I am sinking.

And so tonight we both cried together, my baby and I.