I
remember my attending in residency, the only one who liked talking about being
a mother—she would tell me not to prescribe these drops after cataract surgery
to prevent risk of macular edema and then offer to check if my car seat was
installed right—she used to say, there are three big milestones with kids. When
they start sleeping through the night, when they stop breastfeeding, and when
they get potty trained.
E sailed through all three with surprising ease and little effort. Because she
was so sleep-deprived in daycare during our residency years, she conked out for
twelve hours every night starting at three months. No exceptions, except maybe
violent illnesses or severe thunderstorms. She self-weaned after my milk ran
low. She potty trained in a day without a single accident, which I attribute to
the fact that I dreaded the idea of a personal encounter with poop so much that
I put it off until she was nearly three. She heard the word “lollipop” and the
rest was history. I told her once that she could pee in the pool, and she
looked at me like I was crazy.
Not
so with dee-dee, our dimple-cheeked bundle of grinning stubbornness. He refused to
take the bottle and was driven in for me to nurse every three hours at work. My
milk ran low and I had to fill the bottle with orange juice to get him to take
it. And he still, at ten months, does not reliably sleep through the night,
regardless of what we do. Once every three or four days he’ll cry, mostly
briefly, but enough to wake us up and leave us sleep-deprived the next day.
I
remember my mom saying once that taking care of children is a privilege. Maybe
it’s because I’m tired, but I’ve been viewing each day as more of a chore. I
wake up each morning feeling exhausted, counting down the hours until I leave
for work, hoping he naps so I can prep dinner and/or give E the solo
attention she needs to avoid a descent into whininess. I get to work and count
down the hours until I leave, seeing patients or operating nonstop. I arrive
home to clingy kids and more chores, counting the hours until their bedtime.
Then I spend an hour or so trying to feel like I have my own life, before
waking to start it all again.
Those
are the days I work. For the other four days of the week, I have a one- to
two-hour spell of time off in the afternoon when their naps overlap, but it
feels much the same.
It’s
strange to realize that here I am, with two adorable kids, and most of the time
I just feel tired and want them to be sleeping. I fantasize about weekend
vacations without them. I think more about how to prevent spills and what to
cook for dinner than how to enrich their days. I’m getting by rather than being
present in the moment, playing defense rather than offense, being reactive
instead of proactive.
Some
of that probably just means I need time off or a full night’s sleep. But some
of it is in my mind and choices. When I live in my grumpiness instead of in the
Spirit; when I complain instead of being thankful. When I take them for
granted.
But
that is what’s so difficult about having kids. They wear you down, physically
and emotionally. You get so used to doing things because you have to that you
forget about doing them because you want to. I know bringing them up
right—demonstrating Christ, teaching important things, discerning specific
needs—is a privilege. I know my mood determines the mood of the entire house. I
know we want our home to be a place of safety and peace. And I sure know now
that none of that is possible unless I’m asking God for help. I’m trying to
change my thinking, to enjoy each day. And I’m praying he starts sleeping
regularly through the night.
