Sleep training is not for the faint of heart. It's also not for everyone.

I've mentioned in the past (here and here) that Daryl and I ended up with a horrible sleeper for a daughter; when Margot was a newborn, I answered her chirps and her whimpers and her cries as quickly as I could get to her, and she was always satiated by breastfeeding. It was what she needed, and I was beyond happy to do it for her. To this day, if she asks, I will provide; nursing her is my joy, and I don't plan on stopping until it feels right; and as yet, it doesn't.

When she transformed from newborn to sweet, squirmy little baby, though, our habits didn't change. I knew from things I'd read or been told that maybe I didn't need to keep up with such steady nightly feedings, or that by this age or that age the contents of her stomach at nighttime should be enough to last her through to the morning, but never at any point in time did I feel even remotely certain that her mid-night cries for milk should go ignored; because who was I to say whether or not she was legitimately hungry or not? Granted, there came many occasions on which I'd put my foot down - I'd be in the throes of such debilitating exhaustion and I'd say to Daryl, "I can't do this anymore. We need to sleep train her." But with all the gusto I had mustered up, talking about it and following through with it were vastly different. And as we quickly found out, I can't stand weathering her cries.

We started sleep training her in the beginning over naptime rather than nighttime, and I did some reading and research, but generally attacked the process with a mish-mash of various techniques. I didn't know what I was doing, and I wasn't confident whatsoever. I tried sitting at her bedside, although even with room-darkening curtains, white noise, and pre-nap nursing she just laid there and screamed at me. We shed tears together, and I questioned altogether why I ever thought this was a good idea. Hints of success waxed and waned, and I became a veritable lunatic documenting every single thing that happened, and every single wink of sleep that she got. I kid you not - I kept track of everything. I still (kind of) do - I have notes in my phone that span over a year and a quarter; and although they've gotten far less detailed and I've gotten less diligent, I can't see myself kicking the habit until Margot starts sleeping through the night.

Anyhow, I digress. Here lie Exhibits A through D, demonstrating a fairly roundabout curve of how well sleep training ended up going back in those early(ish) days last summer. These are some particularly noteworthy moments - little snippets from four different days, out of close to a million of them, I'd say - and please excuse the swears. Also, don't bother telling me your madness has never brought a slew of cuss words flying out of your mouth like confetti. This happens to be an example of me reigned in.

So eventually, if it's not obvious herein, I gave up. You might have noticed how heavily me-centric these notes are - Daryl wasn't involved in this at all. Not because he wasn't absolutely and wildly DESPERATE to have his hand at it, but because a) he was always at work during naptime, and b) my maternal instincts offered a staunch HANDS-OFF-I-DON'T-CARE-WHO-YOU-ARE ruling when it came to both my limits and Margot's. Daryl has an easier time letting Margot cry, whereas I can only withstand it for so long before I'm clambering up to her room on all fours. And in the later days, when I eventually conceded and asked him to help - acknowledging there wasn't a bone in my body that wanted to do this alone any longer - there were many a night were I would either be yelling and swearing at him, or he'd literally be holding me back, talking sense into me, to keep me from running into Margot's room and undoing everything we'd been working on. 

Can I say that IT. WAS. HARD. ? That maybe I died a little bit? I hated every minute of it. And here we are over a year later, and I can't tell you with any certainty whatsoever that it was worth our time. Actually, I should give us some credit; even though Margot still generally sucks at sleeping throughout the course of a night, our efforts at sleep training revitalized naptime - and in the long run, eventually bedtime itself. Those long days trying and failing at getting her to be alone in her crib did pay off, in that they taught her that not only was she in a safe place, but she was capable of falling asleep without a boob in her mouth. It was a rocky trip up a steep mountain, but I am ever so grateful that that hardship led to her putting herself down for naps after some chit-chatting to herself rather than screaming so passionately that I'm surprised our neighbors weren't knocking on the door to make sure I was still alive.

The moral of this story? I don't like sleep training. I can't tell you whether I agree with it or not. And nobody but nobody is going to know better about your circumstances than you are. Whether your niece or your best friend's baby or even one of your other pre-existing babies were sleeping through the night after three nights of dreadful Crying It Out, or whether you're like me and spent months not knowing what was up or down and came out with a kid who kind of gets it but kind of basically doesn't, please remember that you're okay; that you're going to be okay, and that you currently are. Seek help if you need it, and rest on your laurels if that's what you need to do. So what if your baby is utter crap at sleeping? You know autopilot? That system that kicks in and makes your legs magically walk into a pair of pants and your hands mysteriously pick up your glasses and put them on your face in the morning (maybe right side up, or maybe upside down. I did upside down once.)? Autopilot. It's there for you and it works and it gets you through all those days that you look back and don't have a single memory of. 

So don't ask me what I had for dinner last night, because I guarantee I don't remember whatsoever, but at the very least I hold my head high knowing I'm doing everything - literally everything - that I can possibly do for my daughter and we're both better off because of it. 

Trust your gut. Read as much as you feel comfortable doing, listen to the advice of others, but take everything you collect with a grain of salt. It can't be stressed enough that nobody knows your child the way you do, and nobody is going to have a better handle on what your baby needs than you. Your methods and tactics and habits do not ever have to measure up to anybody else's. Those other perfect-sleeping babies are not your baby, and that's a good thing. Because they're really boogery anyhow.

Struggling with postpartum depression

I've tried to make a habit of writing letters to Maggie, though as it goes, I was really diligent about it at first, and now I think I pump one out once every four or five months. I wrote her one letter, though, when I was in the throes of postpartum depression - I was plunged headfirst into it, but didn't quite realize it yet. I knew I was feeling depressed, but didn't understand at the same time exactly what it was that I was going through. (Is this normal? I have no idea.)

I've kept the tone of all her letters light, and worked on mentioning milestones she'd hit, little words she was working on, or how she was sleeping. They're letters that I hope she'll love reading someday when she's older... maybe even when she has babies of her own.

There was one that I wrote, though, that I've kept separate from the rest. I needed to get off my chest all the things I'd been feeling. I wrote it about a month into my madness. Here it is.

_________

My dear daughter Maggie

Today you are five months and twelve days old. I love you more today than I did yesterday, the day before, or the day before that. Every morning that we wake up together I tumble deeper and deeper in love with you.

But.

Today, I wept.

I am so tired. So overwhelmed. So maxed out. And this morning, it all welled up in me, and overflowed. I cried for how tired I am, for how helpless I feel, and for how the stress I’m feeling is taking a physical toll on my body.

It’s hard for me to think of anything more soul-stirringly beautiful or terrifying than the concept of turning into a mother. World overturns. Floors crack and fall beneath feet. Preconceived ideas shatter. Motherhood is not for the faint of heart, and it appears to be a beautiful concoction of mortar and brick, holding the power to transform the weak or the shy into the strong and sure, while simultaneously able to turn the most self-assured woman into the most uncertain of them all.

I didn’t know what else to do but cry. Not that I made the choice, really – and not that I could’ve stopped it …the tears flowed heavy down my cheeks, and I let myself be swept away in a sea of sadness. What did I cry about? Oh, everything: the never-ending sleepless nights, in which I’m up with you – count them – five, six, seven times; the long road to physical recovery after childbirth and two related surgeries; my return to work, far sooner than I’m comfortable with, and the delicate balance of work and parenting as I tote you on my hip as I go (oh, will you ever say yes to a bottle?); and the desperate feeling that I’m all alone throughout my struggles.

I know I’m not alone; I have your sweet dad, who bends over backward to take care of me. But it’s not that. Depression has a way of deceiving a person into thinking nobody understands; nobody has been here before; nobody can help because nobody quite knows.

It’s hard to know what to make of my feelings. Most days I feel fine – or, wait… I spent the first four months of your life feeling fine, but I don’t think I’ve felt that way in quite some time. I think I feel mostly like a volcano – a strong and secure outer rock shell, with a sea of boiling, bubbling lava at my very base – generally unobtrusive, but always threatening to spring up and overflow. I can go days or weeks feeling joyful and at peace, and yet I just can’t quite ignore this feeling like nothing is quite okay at all.

I lost my dad seven years ago. Not to death, but to another family – another life, another wife, another set of grown children. This is totally unrelated. But when it rains, it pours – and so, you know, I had a baby, I became a mother, I experienced extreme sleep deprivation, I endured prenatal and postnatal hormones gone haywire, which led to an overwhelming feeling of panic and anxiety, which led to feelings of depression, which led to a remembrance that I am missing a very key part of my being – my father. I won’t ever get him back, and this hurts me over and over every day. And so it goes.

Maggie girl, this isn’t a letter that I ever want you to read – just because I don’t ever want you to know that I felt adverse feelings to becoming a mother, or feelings of hopelessness surrounding raising a tiny, wiggly little you. Except that I think I’m tired of making things seem okay when really they aren’t.  I wrote you a letter once, in which I said that I’m excited to stand with you while you grow; that I hope to show you everything. I wrote that I wish for you to see and experience it all – great love, deep joy, and the kind of laughter that makes your face hurt; I want you to know the gamut of soul-stirring emotions. And in those moments where you feel the depths of pain and sorrow, as I have, I hope you stay strong, know that it too shall pass, and that you are loved beyond words. I so desperately want to show you what great capacity we all have for love – what exists in deep human connection, in compassion for others, in the magic and discovery of seeing, learning and finding new things every day in all sorts of corners of the world.

And so in all this, it’s only fair that you know that I’m human, too. I am as weak as I am strong. And should there ever come a day where you become a mum and have a baby of your own, I hope you read this and maybe even find something to relate to in the long, dark hours of the night, or the long, light hours of the day.

On sleep, and why it's important to lay your shit out on the table.

I birthed a bad sleeper. Whether that fact is purely coincidental, or whether it's some sort of karmic retribution for the amount of times that I chose sleeping over social engagements, I'll never know. But regardless, Maggie is a staunch advocate of prying me out of bed every night so that she can comfort nurse anywhere from 1-11 times per night. (Yes. I said 11. It only happened once, but it counts, and for the first year of her life, she woke up around 5-7 times per night, making me lucky if I got more than two hours of sleep at any given time).

As the first weeks and months of her life went by, I knew that I was just doing what it took in order to get both of us the most optimum amount of sleep in a night - if she whimpered, I'd spring out of bed and rush over to her (or, more accurately, as time went by I'd roll out of bed and make my way to her, pulling myself across our hardwood bedroom floor, leaving a trail of drool in my wake), then I'd bring her back to bed with me, where I'd nurse her back to sleep. I eventually started questioning whether or not I was doing the best thing, tending to her upon a moment's notice, or whether I was creating a monster by sticking a boob in her mouth every time she made a peep in the night - but never at any point did I feel I had reached a comfortable point at which to cut her off and trust that her tummy wasn't empty, or that in spite of being empty she could survive the night and sleep soundly until morning without nursing.

I don't know how many people this will resonate with, or whether you have to have been in this position to empathize with me, or whether my iron will is actually more like spaghetti will - but at any rate, I know now full well that I did indeed create a monster. A sweet, lovely little blue-eyed, milk-drinking monster. And not a bone in my body is ready to cut her off.

Because ...the bond! The BOND. Aptly known as The Bond That Physiologically Prevents Me From Weaning Even When I Start Looking Like This.

I took these pictures two mornings in a row, when Daryl was out of town, and Maggie was in the throes of an awful head cold and so, as it goes, neither of us were sleeping. And I was so desperate for help, so weary and so tired of feeling so alone and so at the end of my rope that not only did I take these pictures to forever immortalize This Feeling, but I posted them on Facebook. I let all my friends see me, pyjama-clad, at my sad and sorry worst, with bags under my eyes so heavy I thought they might be about to reach my chin. And I posted these with fervor on a whim of feeling so liberated at the thought of showing people how I REALLY AM and not how happy I look in my profile picture. I posted a rundown of exactly when and for how long Maggie had woken up both nights prior, and told people to make no mistake about how things were going at home, because here's what I look like so you can imagine how I'm feeling. Like death itself.

And my friends saw me, heard me, and felt for me. Because of course they did. Because as it turns out, who gives two shits about what you look like?? Amidst my anguish there existed not only sympathy, but here were these other mum-friends of mine who had gone or were going through the same thing. It takes so much energy putting up pretenses and making it look as though we're conquering every day as superparents - I can't understand for the life of me why we aren't being true with our friends. And as a friend, do we not love others completely, and hope for nothing less than that with those we choose to spend our time with? Maybe not - maybe it depends on the friend - but I make a point to surround myself with close friends - those with whom I willfully desire meaningful relationships, because quite frankly I'd rather stuff my face with Doritos and focus on the crunching sound in my own ears than I would rather make banal small talk with acquaintances. (I have a love-hate relationship with my introversion.)

Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. What I'm getting at is that I realized that - duh - I'm not alone in this. As if I ever had the gall to think that I am the first and only one in the world to experience anything I'd been going through.

I realized how important it is to talk this all out - every hint of desperation that seeps in and takes over your mind, every moment in which you feel may be your final undoing - because none of us are alone. Every feeling that I as a parent have ever felt is something that scores of mothers and fathers have felt a hundred times over. It takes a village, they say, to raise a child. And make no mistake that it takes that very same village to raise up a parent.

Motherhood is bonkers and so am I.

Hi. I'm here. How are you? Good? K me too. 

Starting a blog is hard, maintaining a blog is even harder I'm sure, but I've resolved to do my best in pushing past the initial struggle with the hope that I can get into a groove, release unto the universe what's sure to be a long string of frustrated, overjoyed and oftentimes perplexed babbling, and maybe - just maybe! - tug on the shirtsleeves of other mums out there who may read this and at once feel like they're not alone.

...Also sometimes you might just find me going on about my extensive expensive boot collection (two pairs), my incredibly lacking pants collection (two pairs), or about how I'm one step closer to becoming an international spy after learning how to pick combination locks.

Anyway, where was I?

I became a mother just 15 months ago, and while over the course of the first four of them I was whirling around in a bubble of complete elation, my forays into balancing parenting with work with sleep deprivation suddenly landed me flat on my ass with no clue which way was up. It's only in retrospect that I realize I was battling postpartum depression, and thank God it eventually passed, and I learned to dust off my knees and put one foot in front of the other again - and to accept the realization that in spite of how blissfully I rode out the first handful of months with my Maggie, being this girl's mother is hard. It's amazing, it's empowering, it's thrilling, and I wouldn't take any of it back for even an iota of a second, but it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life.

So bear with me, okay? I kind of have no idea what this blog is going to look like. It might be equal points poignant and ridiculous and irrelevant and very relevant and sad and happy and hilarious. But whether you're a stranger reading this, or one of my close friends, or maybe you're even me (hi, keep writing), hear this loud voice of mine shouting over a room full of other very loud voices on the internet screaming at you about how MOTHERHOOD IS SRSLY BONKERS AND I AM TOO. AREN'T YOU?! Be honest. K yeah I thought so.