The Glory of Sleep

Over the last few years, Barry and I have entered into a realm of sleepless nights and days. Like "youth is wasted on the young" from It's a Wonderful Life, sleep is the gold of parents and the bane of a child's existence.

We began the cumulative sleeplessness somewhere about child number nine. After surviving all the other odd sleepers and non-sleepers, Chloe began to create a challenge for both of us. Initially after she was born, Barry was laid off. I returned to work when she was about 4 weeks old. Note to mothers of advanced maternal age (anything over 35) this was not my smartest idea and I am still suffering the consequences of that decision. There is strong family sentiment that the demise of my sleeping cycle began in that year.

Our lives became eat, work, feed, run other children to activities, sleep or not sleep. Repeat and repeat again. Sometimes we might change it up a bit and add a nap. On weekends, as I soon became pregnant and also very sick with an infection I caught at work, I began spending hours at home in bed on Saturday and sometimes Sunday. After work each day I would wonder into the house in a coma-like daze and climb the stairs to our bedroom. As I would begin to shed my work clothes, I would directly put on some version of pajamas and sweats, crawling head first into our king-sized bed.

Miraculously food would appear. I would attempt to eat, take medicine, and nurse the current baby. The time for baths would arrive and the parade of freshly laundered bodies and pajamas would crawl across our bed seeking attention. We would wrestle and chase across the room, and settle into quiet right before evening prayers. On good nights I might nap between rounds. On the not so good nights I would be lying in bed begging for peace and quiet and some semblance of rest.

Along the line I lost a way of catching up on my sleep. There were days that I drug myself out of bed, crying for the comfort of sleep and quiet. Those days were full of physical pain and psychological torture at times. Hurting from every moment lost to wakeful periods and restless nights. God, more than once, heard my prayer for super human strength as I was on my knees crying as I showered each morning.

Some days were numbly tolerated with no real emotion expended. Sleeplessness is almost like an opiate when it allows you to see and hear things that do not exist, see and hear things that do exist, but keeps you from reality as you drift in and out of your day.

For many years baby cries were the source of our disrupted sleep. We have somehow left the majority of sleepless nights be-fraught by the cries of babies in the last year or two. The outward cries we hear now are generally those of sick children or fearful nightmares. The fumbling footsteps of the once sleeping child are heard outside our door and miraculously the child appears within the warmth and comfort of our bed.

This of course, meets the immediate need for comfort of the child and our bed transforms into the torture chamber of the adults. When we were younger the adding of a small, freshly bathed being into our bed was at times comforting. But as they grew, there was nothing loving about having one's body kicked mercilessly multiple times in the rib cage by the pointed heel of a sleeping child. Nor is there rest from repositioning yourself around a fitfully nightmaring child.

Despite all attempts, the child becomes the champion of space on even the largest beds. Parents pushed and crowded to the edges, with a spread eagle child sprawled diagonally across the middle domain of space can attest to the discomfort of sleeping with the restless child.

Occasionally the nights are pierced with cries of sleep walking and talking. Loud yells of anger, bursts of laughter are heard by adults but don't waken the dreaming child. We crawl out of bed to check each noise and investigate the source. What happens to me after those attacks of nightmares, is even less sleep. I lay in transient sleep waiting for the next round of yelling. Jerking awake at the first hint of kitten feet walking across the wooden floors. There I am poised tensely lying on my side hugging the edge of the bed waiting for the next cry of distress.

As each child has cycled through this stage, we work to re-establish a rhythm of sleep. Sometimes the season of night terrors is short. Other times the terrors are re-lived over and over again, even within the same night. But by now the odd hours of work, and the years of disrupted sleep allow the season to continue to plague even the quietest of nights.

We recently spent an entire weekend together in a hotel-- key word here-- ALONE. No interruptions. Not even a call from the children on the cell phones. Utterly blissful, relaxing quiet. Most people would find the quiet and alone time soothing and restful enough to lull themselves to sleep. Not us. Neither of us managed to sleep comfortably either night. I laid awake one night until 3 or later in the morning.

I was comforted by the sighs and noises of my darling as he slept. I even avoided the urge to nudge him to roll over and try a new position to quieten his noises. But still no rest. We mentioned the issue of sleep to other couples on the weekend. They too, were sleepless on those nights.

Day by day we are working to re-capture the bliss of sleep of our youth. Generally with no success. Our oldest daughter had remarked that sleep is over-rated, and "there is plenty of time to sleep when you are dead". I am beginning to think she may be right.