I found myself chanting something in my mind in the wee hours of the morning as I swayed with a crying Wren. "I am Mother, I do not sleep, I am Mother, I do not sleep." When I became aware of my mantra, the hilarity almost woke me up cold. Almost. I wasn't even sure that I was awake or how I came to be in her room at 2:30am in the first place. I couldn't remember walking the hall or picking her up. Somehow those words made me feel better about missing those precious unconscious zzz's.
The craziest things enter my mind during those semi-awake moments with Wren. Like, last night when she woke up just 2 hours after the last wake up session, I felt like crying in my exhaustion. I remember walking down the hall and thinking, "Christin, just cry in your mind, it takes too much energy to cry real tears." Usually I will sit down and feed her and I have to remind myself that she will fall right out of my arms if I fall asleep in the chair.
Since my brain is operating at about two-thirds capacity under sleep deprivation, I've noticed that my internal dialogue has gotten a lot simpler from it's usual convoluted web. For instance, one word has been leaping from the fray at the most unusual times, not even giving me the courtesy of a complete sentence: season. My living room is a wading pool of cars, trucks and trains, I think to myself, "season." Wren wakes up like clockwork every two hours of the night, I yawn a weary, "season." Jude has a tearful and desperate meltdown over the emptyness of his milk cup, then over having to eat chicken, then over the taking away of the chicken, I shriek, "SEASON!"
There are also those other moments. Wren only wants to be held in the middle of the night, no other arms will do. I drag myself down the hall and hold her close with my lips to her soft head, "season." Jude still wants to "Mommy snuggle you" and I climb under the covers with him, even if I have a million things to do, and we go forehead to forehead, nose to nose, "sweet season."