Overnight

My feet shuffled along the soft carpet. The pale blue walls are pitch black now and it’s only my mind that leads the way, like a compass dragging me north. The room was dark, more so than usual. The cries were insistent. Desperate. The sound coming from deep in his throat, his little lungs working overtime. If only he’d given me another half an hour. Twenty minutes. Hell, I would’ve been happy with another ten minutes of sleep. But this was it. Some comfort and then rocking. It might be hours. It might be a little less. There’s always hope that it’ll be a little less tonight. 

These were the worst nights. Without the moon. Usually it’s here, keeping me company. Not tonight. New moon nights were darker, cooler. Lonelier. It’s always lonely during the night, it’s just a little worse without the moon. It should be a constant, like the one thing that can always be relied upon. The sun rises, the sun sets, the moon rises. Except when it doesn’t. Not to my simple mortal eyes at least. From a different planet I’d probably see the moon. But then I wouldn’t hear the mindless cries, and then what would we do?

But they say the new moon is a time for things that are new, fresh, different. Who even says that? Random mums on Instagram showing their perfect baby? One with crystals in their baby’s beds that are surely working (if not providing a significant choking hazard). Seriously, new and fresh and different would be a kid that slept through the night. One day. I’m sure. At some point I’m sure it happens. Eventually. 

They say that keeping the lights off during the night will teach him that it’s night. Quiet house equals night. Do I really need to teach him that? Regardless, I follow the advice. Surely they know better than me. Lights off. Quiet as a mouse. I don’t even make a noise when my inner compass is off and I kick my toe. I’m good like that. That’ll teach him. 

Yeah, that’ll teach him. He’s finally asleep. The sound of his tiny breaths are all I can hear. But the hard part is yet to come. Ever tried putting down a little person who’s entire personality at this point is ‘do not let go of me’. When he grows up his love language will be physical touch, without a doubt. I can’t imagine it being anything else. Or maybe it’s quality time. I mean he sure doesn’t want to be without me. Seriously, a few hours of alone time overnight wouldn’t hurt, I’m sure. 

Nothing is smoother or more relieving than getting that kid back into his bed, still out to it. You’d be impressed with my motor control if you watched. Of course, it’s too dark, you couldn’t see even if you wanted to. This is the moment I take to admire him, the tiny shadows that he makes, his youthful silhouette. I whisper “I love you. You’re the best”. It’s what I tell him every night, after every waking. Always the same thing. And then I rush back to bed to savour every minute of rest I can.

Then the night cries come again, loud and consuming. Still desperate. Geez, mum, you’re a bit slow. I think that’s what he’s thinking. Yeah, because he’s definitely got an inner monologue. At this point my inner monologue is struggling to stay ‘inner’. It might make its way out soon, and then so much for a quiet house equals night. 

“I swear I just saw you, mate”, I tell him. Breaking the rules. Don’t make noise. Oops. He’ll never learn now. Okay, same thing. Cuddle and rock. I feel like I’ve already done this. More nurture. Round the clock nurture. This kid’s nature is to be nurtured. 

Asleep again. Go me, it seemed a little quicker this time. There is hope for us yet. Either he’s getting better at sleeping or I’m getting better at getting him to sleep. Or maybe, and most probably, I’ve totally lost my sense of time. You know, like when days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months. Well, overnight with a child is more like seconds turning to minutes turning to hours.  And I’ve never been great at counting. 

I lumber back to fall into bed. It would be easier if I just slept on the floor. Less travel time. Those eight and a half steps matter (I suppose I can count that high). But that’s another one of those ‘don’t teach them bad habits’ things. They might end up too clingy. End up is probably not the right turn of phrase. It doesn’t seem to end. And I’m pretty sure it’s too late for us. Honestly, I don’t think this kid knows the difference between his own body and mine. 

And three seconds later he’s up. Okay, it probably wasn’t three seconds, but it sure feels like it. No word of a lie, I’ve lost count of the waking moments tonight. They’ve bled into one another and I can’t seem to distinguish which is which. But it’s not as dark now. And that feels nice. There’s something nice about morning time. 

A new dawn. A new day. The rising sun fills the room with a glorious warmth. It feels softer than my blanket back on my bed. You know, the one I barely used tonight. But there’s promise in that light. There’s comfort there. There’s acceptance that I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got, and there’s a belief that this day, tomorrow, will be better. Can only be better. 

Life’s like that sometimes. You’ve got to take the good with the bad. You’ve got to take the rotten, sleepless nights with the smiles and tiny giggles. You take the explosive nappies and massive laundry pile with the excitement of knocking down block towers and the big boy jumps into waiting arms. It’s good like cuddles that kind of pull your hair and sticky hands because dinner was actually eaten. It’s full of contradictions. And you know that it’s better this way.