Last week was the worst week of my life with Thursday taking top billing as Worst Day of My Life. I'm talking nervous breakdown, bust-out-the-straight-jacket bad.
Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating...sort of. Let me clarify. It was worst week/day of my nocturnal life. The Evil No-Sleep Baby (technically a toddler now) struck again Monday-Saturday. Thursday we felt the worst of his wrath when he literally did not sleep for more than a half-hour stretch at a time.
Teething. Allergies. Congestion. Gas. All of the above? Whatever the culprit was, he was not a happy camper. By Thursday, I had lost my mind.
It was 3 a.m. that fateful night and No-Sleep hadn't slept since 10:30 p.m. He went down as usual at 8 p.m., but awoke two hours later. That was it. After getting up for the fifth time that night(and the umpteenth time that week), I found myself in the family bathroom screaming to the heavens, "Why? Why? Why?" My husband rubbed my back as I rubbed my poor puffy allergy-ridden and sleep-deprived eyes. "I can't do it anymore! I just can't," I sobbed. I had lost all perspective and had turned into an exhausted, angry, frustrated mess.
"I haven't slept in four fucking years!!!" I screamed maniacally.
On a related note, if there is any advice I can give to people contemplating having kids, it's this: Enjoy. Your. Sleep. I had no idea about the alarming degree of sleep deprivation that parents of young children go through while still having to maintain the guise of being good, productive mommies and daddies. I mean, I knew there was going to be no sleep early on, but I had no idea about the amount and duration of said sleep deprivation. Or, that it would unglue, unhinge and destroy me in such a methodical and dramatic fashion.
"Go lie down, honey," my husband said calmly. "I'll deal with him for the night."
"I'm just not cut out for THIS," I yelled.
"I'm not strong enough for THIS," I sobbed.
"I'm not going to make it through THIS," I howled.
He shuffled me off to our bedroom/makeshift psych ward where I went back to bed in a zombie-like state. I lay there for several minutes and listened to my husband whispering to our 16-month-old in a calm, hushed tone. Finally, my eyes shut.
They stayed sealed shut for several hours. I woke up groggy, but sane. The temper-tantrum I threw the night before seemed like a hazy dream. I found my husband in my son's room, asleep in the rocking chair. Jack, passed out in his arms, was creating a pool of drool on my husband's forearm.
I smiled and went back to bed. I'd made it. I. Was. Alive. Lack of sleep hadn't killed me after all. Well, at least not yet...
PS -- That's how I found No Sleep the next day in the playroom at 8:30 a.m. It was nowhere near his nap time.