This holds particularly true for our sleeping schedule - or lack thereof. One of my favorite things to do is put her to bed. As I lay her down in her cozy bed, bundled in her soft pajamas, I gaze lovingly at my beautiful child. I sigh at her perfection as she drifts off to sleep. I dreamily waltz out the door, patting myself on the back for keeping her safe and sound for another blessed day. “I am really getting good at this”, I think to myself, as I turn out the lights.
Then the clock strikes 2:00 am, and I hear the sound that makes a mother’s heart drop into her stomach.
I hurl off the covers, and throw my pillow across the bedroom as I vault out of bed, making sure to make enough noise to passively awake my husband. He doesn’t have to be awake for the duration of this nightmare, but I want to make damn well sure he knows I am getting up. I stalk down the hallway, and jerk open the door. “What do YOU want?” I know I sound like a kidnapper speaking through a voice-alteration device, and I’m glad because I am MAD at this situation. Gone are the lovey dovey feelings of three hours ago. I have been wronged by this tiny person who obviously has some kind of vendetta against me by disturbing my sleep in this manner. I lumber over to the crib expecting to see some kind of smirk of satisfaction on her face, and I ready myself to discipline this horrid child. I peak into the bed and see…what do I see?
…my perfectly beautiful child, smiling and cooing, so grateful to see her mother in the middle of the night. Aaaaaand the flip switches back, we’re right back to where we were earlier.
This little gal is teaching me to be bi-polar.