Essay 144: Night in the Life of a Light Sleeper

Last night, half asleep, I heard our dog pacing in her crate. Unusual behavior for her. I got up and opened her door. She bolted out and circled around me in a frenzy, making it difficult to slip her collar on and clip her leash. Finally, we hurried down the stairs. As soon as we stepped into the yard, she pulled me to her favorite potty corner. The relief on her face was visible even in the dim night light. Relief that her bowels were finally empty but also, I’m certain, relief that she had not made a mess inside.  

We returned upstairs eager to get back to sleep, the doggy in her crate and me in my bed where our daughter was sprawled across our king-size mattress.
My husband was spending the night in our guest room downstairs since I was on school drop off duty in the morning*. (We take turns sleeping in the guest room so that at least one of us can sleep past 6.25 am on school days.)

As I tried to go back to sleep, I remembered an amusing incident. A few years before, I had woken up sick. Craving some sympathy but not wanting to outright shake my husband awake, I turned on all the lights and left the door to our en-suite bathroom open, hoping he’d wake up “naturally”. Alas, neither the brightness of the room nor the sound of my guttural retching disturbed him. His snoring remained uninterrupted. 

It occurred to me that, had our sleeping quarters been reversed, my husband would not have heard the dog’s whining earlier and who knows how that would have concluded… 

For a second, I envied him. He’s out as soon as he puts his head on the pillow and very little will rouse him up. “Why can’t I sleep like that?” I wondered wistfully. The answer that fluttered by surprised me: “because YOU are mother.” 

The moment we hold our precious newborn for the first time, we undergo an invisible yet very real physiological transformation, wherein deep sleep becomes nearly impossible. Whether we cosleep or not, breastfeed or not, gave birth or not, we simply know when OUR child needs us, sometimes even before the little angel has even stirred. 

I am mother. I am called to nurture and comfort, day or night indiscriminately. I remember the early days of nursing our daughter in the wee hours and realizing that mothers all over the world, in all time zones, were doing the same at that very moment. It was just me and my baby in the room but a legion of us deep in the trenches.

I am mother. My ears are constantly attuned. I hear our daughter mumbling as she sleeps. I hear our puppy whimpering as she dreams. I hear my husband getting up even when he tries so hard to be quiet. 

I am mother. When she’s sick, I lay my toddler on top of me and I sit up against the bedroom wall to keep her head elevated. When she’s sick, I sleep with the puppy on a cot in our driveway so that she can “go” as she needs to and without delay.

I am mother. Even asleep, I hear the sudden downpour of rain so I get up to close the window. Even asleep, I see the flashing lights of the ambulance by our neighbor’s gate so I go check on her.

For a split second yesterday, I caught myself thinking that it isn’t fair: I wake up and my husband doesn’t. But resentment was quickly replaced by gratitude. This inability to sleep deeply is not a handicap. It is a super power. 

Everyone in my house is asleep but me. 
My husband is getting the rest he needs to have the energy to work and provide for our family tomorrow. 
Our puppy is getting the rest she needs to recover from whatever is ailing her at the moment. 
Our daughter is getting the rest she needs to grow and stay healthy. 

I am mother.

I am at peace. 

My husband likes to point out that, in movies, it is always the wife who shakes her husband awake because SHE heard a suspicious noise. I know that, if I ever heard a suspicious noise, he would be ready to protect us in a split second but I also know that I would have to wake him up first. 🙂

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*We took a break from homeschooling last year and our daughter spent 7th grade as a private school student. She’s back at home now.
The first draft of this essay was written a few months ago.