Sarah woke up about five times between 1-5 a.m this morning, and called me each time. Mark covered the last, was it the fifth or sixth time, because I was clearly not handling it well. I think the tears and the begging were the big clues there.
What a deja vu. This reminded me exactly of what I am least able to cope with as a parent: the broken sleep. It was always hard for me, and I have never been able to cope very well.
It makes me foul-tempered.
I find myself talking to those I love most through gritted teeth.
I hate that I wasn’t able to find it in myself to muster greater concern about her fear of the dark, which is what all five predawn visits were related to this morning. I’d rub her back for a minute… but all I was thinking about is sleep, and how I’m going to spend the rest of the day feeling like a bag of wet mice.
The days when I’m really tired are the days I feel like I fail as a parent.
What would a good mom do? She’d stay with her child until she’d fall asleep. The mother would make the sacrifice gladly, wouldn’t she? And then she’d get up early to bake a loaf of bread.
It’s ridiculous to even think about. I just wish I could be better in this one way.
