Birthing Beautiful Ideas

I had always expected the sleep deprivation of the newborn weeks. 

I knew enough about babies even before I had children of my own to know that one of the best ways to navigate the newborn stage was to surrender to the sleeplessness and the fatigue and  the pajama-clad days.  To surrender to our baby and to the brand new life that we were forging for ourselves.  To tolerate and even come to enjoy the extended nursing sessions, the 2 a.m. blow-out poops that Tim and I eventually learned to handle with our eyes half-closed, and the hours upon hours of holding our helpless, precious baby. 

And then there were the months of late-night infant-feeding.  Those quiet moments wrapped up in blankets and shadows where I could cuddle my baby and nurse him back to sleep.  Those nights where the interruptions in my sleep were special, almost magical.

I had expected those mildly sleep-depriving nights as well, and I treasured the tranquil bond they afforded to my sons and me.

But (and here’s where this blog post takes a surprising turn), I do not ever and will not ever and do not ever condone anyone who finds pleasurable or magical or enjoyable those mornings where my or any other children decide to wake up for good at 3:30 a.m.

It’s cruel.  And unusual.  And it certainly feels like punishment.  (And I’m looking straight at you, my deranged little toddler.)

What’s especially disconcerting is that after the newborn era and the regular nightly nursing sessions, one comes to expect a certain amount of restful sleep each night.  One expects to wake up at a predictable hour (say, after the sunrise), and one even expects a few early wakings (say, just before the sunrise).

But 3:30 in the morning?  3:30 in the ridiculously early morning?!

It’s so ridiculous that my brain hurts just trying to think about it!  And I’m not really even thinking about it!  I’m just trying!

So now, I’m walking around all morning like a drunken seven-year-old and making statements like:

“Please!  Don’t jump the duice from your strawberries on your lap!”

“Hey, let’s keep your bottom on the table so that you don’t fall off your chair.”  (M proceeds to get a wicked gleam in his eye as he thinks I have just given him permission to play on top of the kitchen table.)

(Spoken to my own mother): “Mommy, thanks for making coffee this morning.”

(After a quesadilla I’m preparing for my three-year-old somehow sprouts legs, leaps high into the air, and makes a death-defying plunge toward the kitchen floor): “FIVE SECOND RULE!  FIVE SECOND RULE!  You can still eat it!  I swear!”

“You’re doing such a great job of taking your clothes on…I mean putting your clothes off…oh, whatever, you know what I mean.”

It’s days like these where even a giant-sized styrofoam cup of brown sludge from the gas station sound like a big slice o’ heaven to me.