To all the moms out there

For Mother's Day: I want a good night's sleep
By Tiffany Gee Lewis
Tuesday, May. 05, 2009
Read all of Tiffany's past columns here



“Psst, Mom! Mom, are you awake?”

I crack open an eye, and find myself face-to-face with my 3-year-old.

Tragically, the answer is, yes, I’m awake. I had finished feeding my infant for the fourth time that night, and just drifted off to sleep where I dreamed about having another baby. But now this little one is standing in front of me.

“Do you need a drink?” I whisper. I climb out of bed and guide him to the bathroom. On the way, his shorts brush my leg, and I realize he is sopping wet. I strip him down, change his clothes while trying not to wake his sleeping brother, lay a dry towel over his wet sheets, and tuck him back in bed.

My 5-year-old comes stumbling into the room.

“Hi, Mom!” he whispers. “Can I see the baby? Can I tell you about my dream -- there was a fish, and did you know it was blue?” I nod, usher him to the bathroom, and put him back to bed. “Go to sleep,” I whisper.

Just as I’m getting settled in bed, my 6-year-old pounds his way into my room, breathless.

“I’m scared!” he says.

I attempt to lift my head. I think if I climb out of bed one more time I will fall in a heap and be left for dead.

I reach out a limp arm and pat his shoulder.

“Go potty. Get a drink. Say a prayer. Leave your door open. I love you.”

This is my nightly ritual. I like to think that across the world other parents are also having a party at 2 a.m., that we should wave to each other from our night-lit windows in understanding. Because I know when I climb into bed each night that things are just getting started.

Part of it is this incredible, X-Men-like ability I have to hear all things related to my kids. Through my door I can hear the shuffle of feet, the brief cough, the creak of a bed. I sleep with a pillow over my head, and even then you’d be amazed what noises permeate the goose feathers. It’s like being tuned into a nocturnal symphony of sound, but sometimes I would really like to hand over the baton to someone else.

I’m convinced that I could be a 10-kid wife if someone else took the night shift. (Ahem. Husband is a fantastic daytime father, but it’s like trying to rouse a lump of clay to get him out of bed at night, so no hope there.)

Being a parent means laying aside that great treasure that is a full night’s sleep. It means stumbling blind in the night to comfort, hydrate and feed. It means sometimes being so weary that you face the mirror in the morning and find that somehow, inexplicably, you smeared Desitin diaper rash ointment all over your forehead. And you know that particular mystery is one you will never solve.

There are times when I wonder if I’d be more productive just calling it quits and using the nocturnal hours to scrub the floor or write a novel. Donning pajamas and climbing into bed seem almost like a superfluous mockery at times. But I always hold out hope that this night will be different, that all the stars will align and sing my children through a full night of slumber.

I wonder, too, if sometimes my kids conspire against me, whispering among themselves as they brush their teeth: “You take the 1-2 a.m. ‘I’m thirsty’ shift, I’ll tackle the nightmare shift from 3-5, and make sure you wet the bed at precisely 5:40, five minutes before the alarm is set to go off. OK, team, break!”

It all seems so brilliantly orchestrated.

I like to think that this all changes, that babies and children grow and start to sleep, which means at some point I must start to sleep, too.

But deep down I know the truth, because the teenage years are right around the corner. The party is just getting started. We’re living with my parents right now, and I was up feeding the baby the other night. From upstairs I heard the creak of my mother’s bed.

“Tiff, Tiff,” she whispered up the stairs. “I heard the baby crying. Do you need me to take him for a while?” With six fully grown children, a cat, a dog and a teenager still at home, she’s been at this for more than 30 years.

“We’re fine. Go to sleep, Mom,” I whisper back. “You deserve the rest.”