Dear darling baby of mine,
It’s three in the morning and I’m not myself. To be fair, you’ve dragged me out of bed at 3 a.m., which is officially within the ugly hours of the morning; nothing good ever happens between 2 and 4 a.m.
Sweetie, I can accept a 1.30 a.m. wake-up. At 1.30 in the morning, I can fool myself into thinking I’ve only just barely laid my head on the pillow so it’s no big deal. I still remember what it was like to dance on tables at one in the morning, so I can forgive a 1.30 wake-up.
If you demand to see me at 4 a.m. I can tell myself you’ve slept through the night but accidentally woke too early. I’ve probably had four hours of sleep in a row, which is a winning effort for any parent, so 4 a.m., while not ideal, is not the worst.
But 3 a.m.? It’s the middle of the night! WHY WON’T YOU LET ME SLEEP?
Little one, I love you more than words can say. My love is at its biggest when you’re fast asleep in your bed. Sometimes the love threatens to carry me up the stairs and into your room so I can scoop you up and shower you with kisses.
Let’s be honest, I’m not perfect during the day. Mary Poppins I am not, but I think we can agree that I always manage to tread the line of mental stability because, my darling, in the light of day I can see your face. Your sweet, enchanting, adorable face that makes my heart dance and stops me from leaving you out on the nature strip for the council clean-up. Your face saves you. Every. Single. Day.
But the night-time brings the darkness, and in the dark I can’t see your face. Your force field of cute is compromised.
During the day your cries pull at my heart and I run to you to offer comfort and cuddles. At night, they sound like the caw of Lucifer.
During the day your head smells of giggles and pinkie promises. At night, when I’m rocking you back to sleep for the second hour in a row, it smells like the decay of my youth.
I’m not proud of the things I’ve said and done in the middle of the night, and in the morning, when the guilt sets in and I’m begging your forgiveness, I pray you never remember the time I called you a knob or that other time I said you were embarrassing yourself or when I yelled, ‘You’re UNSTABLE!’ in a fit of startling irony.
I’m so sorry, my sweet babe. It’s not your fault. Sort of. I mean, if you just STAYED ASLEEP I might start to act more like a human and less like a creature from the underworld.
It’s irrational, this anger. I’m thinking of my lost sleep, I’m thinking of all the other babies out there who know how to sleep, I’m thinking of all the things I’ve done wrong that make you unable to stay asleep. I’m thinking how every scream is a testament to my failure as a mother. I’m also thinking, deep down inside, how hideous I am for not being more comforting or nurturing.
My heart is telling me to calm down. My brain is telling me that growling at you in the dark certainly isn’t helping.
Please, my baby, forgive me. When my shushing sounds like hissing and my lullabies sound like death metal, I know not what I do. It’s not me: it’s the night-time momster. I’ll try harder. Or, of course, you could always call for Daddy …
Love Mummy xxx