Well, it had to happen sometime. Everything was going so well. Too well. My almost three month old was sleeping for beautiful, GLORIOUS stretches each night. Six, often seven, once even eight hours straight! And now, we have regression. Not just a slight ebb back a couple of hour notches though. Oh, no. We’re back to the endless wakeup calls that left me a walking zombie when Drew was barely two months old.
For the past several days, Drew’s night time awakenings have occurred at 2.5 – 3 hour intervals. This is the stuff that can drain a woman’s very last will to live. Two nights ago, I settled into bed hoping this would be the night we’d return to the beautiful progress we’d made. Boy was I wrong. The ;ittle bugger woke up at midnight, then at two thirty, then at five. By six thirty, when he woke up for the day, I was sapped of all my strength and, I’ll admit it, angry. Three wake ups in a five hour span?!
I try to reassure myself that these setbacks happen. I’ve read about them, heard the tales. “It’s probably a growth spurt,” most knowing moms and experts would say. And I hope it is. Because that’s a good thing. And if that’s what’s happening, then at least there’s good cause for greeting nearly every hour of the night. That would indicate we are making progress of some kind. But what if we’re not?
What I don’t like, in addition to the return of feeling like I’m zombie-walking through the day, is the guilt I feel. You see, every time Drew wakes up at a time of night I find unacceptable, I get mad at him. I know this is irrational. He’s a baby. He doesn’t know better (right??). When he’s crying out in the night, there is some need that he feels needs to be met. He’s not waking me up out of spite. But when the clock reads 12:02, or 2:26, or 4:58 and I stomp into his room, I don’t greet his wide, innocent baby eyes with a “what’s wrong, baby?” look of concern and a calming touch. I know I should. Instead he gets an exhausted, frustrated, “what IS it?!” And I feel terrible about that.
During the sparkling daylight hours when his eyes are bright and he’s giggling at something I did or looking at me attentively while I talk to someone else, the guilt pricks at my insides. You picked him up too forcefully, I scold myself. You plopped him back into his crib while he cried and walked away. You didn’t hold him close and soothe him back to sleep. You lost your patience. You’re usually so patient.
When the guilt seeps in I pick him up and give him an extra squeeze. He can’t see the salty tears resting in the corners of my eyes. “I love you bud,” I murmur into his ear. And I promise myself I’ll do better next time. But I’m afraid that I won’t.
Tags: motherhood
