Getting No Sleep: I Blame the Kids

I used to think I was tired, back in college when I stayed up too late studying, or… studying. Never much of a party girl, my late nights were usually because I was in the middle of a book I couldn’t put down or I was hanging out with my future husband, back when a good night’s sleep was nothing to great conversation. I remember having a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach sometimes when I was exceptionally low on sleep.

Now, as a mom, I think it’s just my normal. I complain sometimes about being tired, but it’s been so long since I haven’t been tired that it’s really no big deal. Except that lately, having three kids and a fourth on the way have made me so tired that by dinnertime, I’m anticipating baths and story time with a weary ache that makes my bedtime seem an eternity away.

However, as soon as the kids are in bed, I get this magical second wind as if someone administered caffeine intravenously as I read them stories and I can then talk with my husband for hours about almost any topic, and then top the night off with a little TV or reading.

I always pay in the morning, turning on the shower with my eyes half-shut while I coach myself into thinking that I can get through this busy day. It’s never painful enough to change my behavior, though, and I continue to skip around the house like a dog freed from their leash as soon as 8 p.m. hits.

Two nights ago, I ended my evening by starting a novel I picked up at the library that afternoon, which for me always spells trouble. Happily sacrificing both good motherhood practices during the day and sleep at night for uninterrupted reading, I always finish the book feeling a little bit sick and a little bit guilty.

But I really blame it on the kids. Last night, my newly-turned, 5-year-old daughter woke me up in the middle of the night to ask me for ice in her water and to report that her 6-year-old brother kept making a high-pitched “ooooooh” sound from his top bunk, and it was freaking her out.

I went back to sleep pretty quickly after grabbing ice and taming the ‘ooooooh.” But this morning, when I felt horrible upon waking up, I right away blamed my daughter’s early morning visit instead of the hours I spent working late into the night before I picked up my book for a long read and then went to sleep with just a few hours until my alarm.

It is just so easy to blame the kids. No, my house isn’t a mess because I spent naptime on Facebook. It’s a mess because my kids keep dumping cereal and milk when they get their own breakfast while I’m showering because I overslept after staying up late watching some documentary that seemed life-altering at 11 pm.

Why is it that, even at the ripe old age of thirty-something, I’m still making choices like I’m in college and can only view decisions as far as they affect my immediate fun?

Maybe it’s okay to be a little bit exhausted. For one thing, I had no problem relating when my son got to sleep late one night last week because he’d just discovered The Indian in the Cupboard. Sometimes, a good book or a great conversation is worth being a little bit tired. You can always blame your exhaustion on the kids.