Sleep be with you

It was just a slip of the tongue, one of those things you half- consciously utter when you’re mind is adrift. Yet, what I said sums up what’s been missing from my life since Adeline was born – sleep. I attended a mass said in my grandmother’s name on a rainy Monday morning. It was early – 8 a.m. to be exact – and it was no small feat to get myself and Addie, purses, strollers, diapers and bottles into the car in pouring down rain and make it to the service on time. I huffed into the church, soggy and lugging Addie, sliding into a pew next to my mother-in-law, Maureen. The service had already started, but I arrived just in time to hear the Fillipino priest say my grandmother’s name: “This service is in memory of Dorrai Baley.” Actually, it’s Doris Bailey, but his accent mangled it a bit. I dreamily watched the service, drifting into memories of my fit and perfectly coifed grandmother who ran a marathon in her 60s and swam miles daily for years. I drifted back into the service during the hug thy neighbor portion. I know there’s a formal name for it, but I’m not Catholic and have rarely attended church, except for Christmas. (Sorry Maureen.) I do know that I am to shake hands, hug and kiss strangers and say “Peace be with you.” But on this particular day I was sleepy, practically comatose after five months of sleeplessness. So when my neighbor turned to me and said, “Peace be with you”, I said, “Sleep be with you.” She giggled a bit, seeing the infant cradled snuggly in her car seat at my side. Addie smiled on cue. For five months now, this tiny thing has kept me awake. I know the sleeplessness is hard on every parent, but for me it’s been particularly hard. See sleep is something that’s never come easy for me. As far back as my sister can recall, I “bonked my head” and said a chant every night for sometimes an hour on end to put myself to sleep. I’d slam my head against my pillow repeatedly and say “I love mommy, I love daddy, I love Sally (when I was mad at her it was, “I sometimes love Sally”) and I love Erick.” I did this every night, regardless of what time it was or how tired I might be. I can only imagine what my parent’s friends must have thought of the Christgau’s “special” child. I gave it up eventually, which is a good thing. I think dorm life would have been tough if I’d continued. I was then left to wrestle with my very active imagination on a nightly basis. I’d go through phases where turning my brain off would be impossible. I’s run down lists; worry about work, friends, family; and develop the most unlikely of scenarios to concern myself. Before you know it, it’s 2 a.m. and not a wink of sleep has occurred. In college, I’d watch infomercials and read math textbooks at all hours of the night. That only led me to that drowsy state where you repeatedly see the same string of images: Impossible math equations being hawked by a blond bimbo in a cheap dress, over and over and over again. I am not one of those functioning insomniacs. When I’d fall into a pattern of sleeplessness, days were impossible. I’d list about, close to tears, hopeful that nightfall would bring sleep. I’d fall into bed, only to remain in fear of another restless night. I broke this pattern when I became pregnant. I could fall asleep in an instant. I even started napping. I slept so well that I couldn’t even remember my dreams. I should never have gotten a taste of good sleep like that. Before Addie was born, people would comment, “Get your sleep now.” I thought I understood, but I had no idea. I was even cocky about it. I thought since I’d lived with insomnia, I’d be OK. I also thought these people were prone to exaggeration. The first night she was born, she slept like a champ. I thought, this is easy. Every night after that, I’ve eaten my words. For weeks, days didn’t seem to end. Saturday become Monday and Monday became Wednesday. Those first six weeks are a blur of diapers, feedings and laundry. I fed the cat dog food; I forgot birthdays, appointments; I couldn’t remember my parent’s names; I got my conditioner and shampoo confused; I baked a cake and forgot to use eggs. I became obsessed with sleep. I started to interrogate everyone, regardless of whether they had a child or not, on how much sleep they got. It became part of my normal salutation: “Hi, How are you? How much sleep did you get last night?” I started to crave it, like you need water after a 10 mile hike in desert heat. Parents of toddlers would smile at my puffy eyes and assure me that, yes, sleep would return again, but it would never be the same. Friends without children would look at my weary smile and tales of sleeplessness and their faces would say it all: I AM NEVER HAVING CHILDREN. But, then it comes. The first time Adeline slept for six hours, I, the typical parent, woke up in a fit, like I’d overslept for work. Wide eyed, I rushed to the crib to find her deep in slumber. I’m told we’re lucky that Adeline can sleep for up to eight hours at a time. But I’m still not getting any sleep. How can you? I’m responsible for someone else’s life. I have a whole new element in my matrix of nighttime worrying. And just as my brain begins to tire of my anxieties and I begin to drift off, someone needs to be fed. I’ve resigned myself to a lifetime of sleeplessness. I look at my parents and think they must be exhausted; surely they haven’t slept in the 40 years since my brother’s arrival.