I always thought that people who complained about sleep deprivation with newborns were, well, pansies quite frankly. That they were being melodramatic.
Mostly because even Miss H, who is my “bad sleeper” (though apparently baby B is equivalent to most of the worlds “bad sleepers”) never slept more than 45 minutes at a time, but she did sleep. So even if it were in 45 minute increments, I still got sleep.
And then baby B was amazing. He did 2+ hour stretches from birth. Of course, Miss H still made sure to wake up in between him, so that I never got too used to sleep, but it was still sleep and it worked and I functioned.
But then baby B started getting teeth. Oh, the teeth! For the first four or so days before his first tooth popped through he didn’t sleep. Like, at all. I literally had to be holding him while rocking or patting him, otherwise he was screaming bloody murder. It was awful. I was exhausted because the only sleep I was getting was when I’d just start drifting off due to exhaustion. But it was never more than 10-15 minutes because then baby B would start screaming because I had stopped moving him.
Pretty much when I thought I was at my breaking point, his first tooth popped through. Thank God! I thought. I surely couldn’t do it for one more day.
Of course, then I got really sad thinking of all the babies who are left to cry it out. Think of how many of them are in such real pain and just need their mommas to love and comfort them, but their parents are too selfish to show them that kind of compassion, even in such pain. It breaks my heart.
It breaks my heart just watching my baby be in pain. I couldn’t just walk away from him and let him deal with it on his own. Of course, then he started getting teeth all wham! Bam! And the sleep deprivation set in again.
And we’ve been working on tooth number five these past few days – it finally made its first cut-through appearance this morning. I seriously thought I was going to lose my mind last night. I didn’t even get to lie down until 2 am.
Of course, J, who has sat right next to me and told me how amazing I am on more than one all-nighter, was semi-asleep. And since I was nearing my breaking point I really wanted to punch him in his gonads. It didn’t matter that he offered to try soothing baby B (baby B doesn’t want him, so it just makes it worse). I was just mad that if he could sleep through the screaming, then he actually had the ability to sleep. And I didn’t. And it pissed me off.
So while I held my poor, teething baby, I fantasized about what it would be like to check into a hotel for a night and sleep for 6 solid hours. No, wait! I’d sleep for 12 hours! 12 solid hours of sleep. I cannot even think of what that is actually like. It’s one of those mythical things. Like unicorns or griffins or virgins after the age of 20. 12 hours of sleep just isn’t possible.
But I fantasized about it. And it was enough. I kept on rocking and patting and telling him how much I loved him. And when the sun finally came up and I climbed out of bed and drank a pot of coffee, I sincerely thanked God that his tooth has popped through and there should be better sleep for all us in the near future.
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