So my cute toddler who once slept like a little badass has started waking up and having some kind of fuckery in the night. (The books call it separation anxiety; I call it fuckery.)
She had trouble sleeping when we were out of town, which I expected, but the trouble continued once we got home, which I did not expect. Now every few days, she wakes up in the middle of the night and screams. It is almost impossible to console her and usually takes an hour or two to get her to go back to sleep. She holds onto me in a death grip with her arms and legs and won’t let me lay her down in the crib. She says MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY, and something that sounds like afraid, afraid, which is a little disturbing and a lot heartbreaking.
I rock her, give her drinks of water, sing to her, shake her (RELAX, I’M KIDDING OKAY?), drug her with Baby Tylenol (doesn’t do a thing) and I’ve even tried putting her in bed with me, but she just does gymnastics on me, head butts me, kicks me, basically does everything but sleep.
She’ll wake up for good at 5 or 6 a.m., defy logic by only taking a 45 minute nap and then she’ll be cranky and ready for bed again by 6 p.m. (WAY the fuck too early). And the cycle continues.
This goes on for a couple of days until finally, out of sheer exhaustion she sleeps for 13 hours and we temporarily get back on track. (Sidenote: I do have a husband and yes, he does help, but since his work hours often limit his ability to be home at 5 a.m. and since his income is the reason I get to be a stay at home #motherrunner in the first place and because he never learned to breastfeed, the nighttime wake ups just naturally became my job.)
Last night was Night 1 of the cycle. She was up from 3 until 4 a.m. and then 5 until 7 a.m., when I gave up trying to get her back to bed, put on Yo Gabba Gabba and drank a pot of coffee.
I can’t pinpoint anything specific that has caused the change in her sleep. Our pediatrician would probably smile and nod and say it’s a natural phase of development and she’ll grow out of it. She’s not teething right now and she hasn’t experienced anything traumatic. I can’t think of a thing she’d be afraid of (we do all of our crack smoking and corpse fucking behind closed doors because, come on. We care!).
Anyway, that whole melodramatic intro was to explain to you why I tried to run 12 miles this morning and only made it to nine: five hours of sleep, and also it was like 85 degrees outside by 8 a.m. and the heat did me in.
I did four miles with Kenzie in the stroller (where she was in surprisingly good spirits) and five more while she was in the gym childcare. At about 8.5 miles, I sat down and drank a whole bottle of Powerade. And after that, there was too much liquid sloshing around in me to run anymore, so we went home.
And now it is 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and I am headed to bed. I thought briefly about pouring myself a whole pint of vodka, but the only thing worse than rocking a screaming toddler back to sleep at 3 in the morning is rocking a screaming toddler back to sleep at 3 in the morning when you’re drunk. So a cold shower and a good sob will have to do.