Bedtime Struggles

“5 minutes until books in bed.” I announce apparently to the void.

My adrenaline is already spiking. I’m on the verge of a panic attack. Night has come again. The world gets dark and my stress levels spike. Deep breath in one-two-three, out one-two-three. Repeat.

I can’t let my stress show. It will only make things worse. These last few months I’ve earned a PhD in hiding my emotions. Write it out, don’t show it in the moment. 

“Books in bed!” I chant, drumming up excitement for bedtime. “Kiss Grammy and Chey goodnight!” She gives everyone kisses and then chants “books in bed!” then walks up the stairs. We close the windows, set up her bed and have her pick out her PJs. Her eyes are already showing apprehension.

“Mama do it!”

“Okay, mama do it” I say as I pick her up while my husband stages things in the bathroom. I change her diaper, put her into her chosen PJs, and brush her teeth. James takes her off the changing station and she is running back to her room before her feet even touch the floor.

We walk into her room, and she has already started to panic. “DADDY SIT!” she cries while patting the rug next to her bed. He is immediately moving to sit, but she is already hyperventilating while repeating her “DADDY SIT” over and over as a screamed mantra.

“PENGUIN RAY OWL” she screams, diving into her bed to find the aforementioned stuffed animals. “MAMA WARM! MAMA ROCK!” 

She is spiraling. We are all on the verge of tears.

I swaddle her in my shawl with the stuffed animals, pick her up and start rocking. “SING” she screams.

I sing. For an hour we rock and sing with the lights on. She panics more when they turn off. We started rocking at 8:02 and finally left her sleeping at 9:17. 

Exhausted and stressed, we trudge downstairs. I soothe my sore throat with a scalding hot chamomile tea and try to walk off the anxiety. It takes an hour for me to wind down enough to sleep. 

The entire time I keep thinking I hear her. Is she screaming? Did she jump out of bed? Is she on the stairs?

Nope. It’s all in my head.

I’m flying. 

It’s been a while since I’ve flown like this. Dancing in the sky, dipping under the waves to pet the dolphins. The light of the full moon not dimming the glimmering display of the milky way.

The water feels cool under my fingertips. There is an island up ahead. I think I’m going to sit at the top of the mountain and watch the stars for a bit. I angle upwards and

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

My watch says 00:13. 

Woken up during REM again. Great.

My two-year-old has gotten out of bed, come to my side of the bed, and has devolved into a full-blown panic attack after seeing me asleep. 

“MAMA WARM!”

“RAY OWL PENGUIN”

“CHANGE BABY”

The requests come rapid fire, screamed at the top of her lungs, and the panic increases with each request not immediately fulfilled.

00:45 I have her swaddled in my shawl with Ray, Owl, and Penguin. She is still screaming. Her pleas have turned to “MAMA ROCK! MOON” 

“I am rocking you, baby. Mama rock. It’s okay.” But she can’t hear me over her own screams. I sing a rendition of “Fly me to the moon” that gets further and further from Sinatra’s original every time I sing it. A lullaby just for her.

It is going to be at least an hour before I can get back to bed. The worst part is I can’t even doze. If I lose my place in the song, the screaming will start again and we will be back at square one.

1:30. Almost an hour since I started rocking. She isn’t out yet, but she is keeping her eyes closed enough that I might be able to turn off the overhead lights.

1:33 I was wrong. Lights are back on.

2:15. The lights are finally off. My husband can finally sneak off to bed, but she isn’t out enough to move yet. I’m still singing.

2:42. “One more minute,” I whisper. I could finally stop singing a minute or so ago. After what feels like an hour, but is probably only 30 seconds, I rock up to standing. Carefully, I position her in the bed, still swaddled with her trio of friends, and cover her with her blanket. 

I can’t leave yet. She will check to see that I’m still here. So I stay standing next to her bed. She looks over, curls into a little ball, and appears to be asleep.

I know better. 

2:49, she checks to see if I’m still there. I am.

2:55, a last check. She curls into her blankets and sighs. I wait. There it is, the foot twitch that signals she is fully asleep.

I carefully back out of the door, slip silently into my bed. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping me conscious at this point and I worry I won’t be able to sleep. I close my eyes, phantom screams echoing in my ears.

We swoop down. 

Muggles have overrun Hogwarts. There is an aerial assault incoming. My dragon and I rip the wings off airplanes. Hogwarts is the last safe place for magic. Our children are there, so we fight. I hear the screams as planes fall, sounding so much like my daughter. Fly me to the moon is playing through my earpiece.

The muggles are retreating? Why would they retreat when they almost have us? Radar shows a big bomb coming in. They’ve decided to nuke us.

We rush to Hogwarts. Maybe we have bought enough time to get everyone to Avalon. I jump through the hole in the ceiling of the great hall.

“Mama”

3:33, and she is climbing into bed with us. 

She climbs in between us and snuggles into my arms. She will sleep here the rest of the night. If I move, twitch, or roll, she will wake up screaming. 

I close my eyes and try to pick up the threads of my dream. Where was I? Falling through a hole? I can’t fall back into it, so I just lay there with my eyes closed. I read somewhere that just resting with your eyes closed was restorative… don’t think they meant instead of sleep though. 

“Ahh~ Moon ~ Ahhh~ Stars…” She is singing and playing with the covers. 

When did it get light out? When did I fall asleep?

She squirms off the side of the bed. “Mama, downstairs!”

Crap. I can’t move. My arm feels like it is going to come off. I’m convinced if I try to sit up my spine will resign its position and just melt out of my body in protest. My entire body feels like one enormous bruise.

“Go get a shirt,” I stall. 

She runs off while I try to use the 10 second reprieve to convince my spine to not quit. We have a great benefits package! I’m not sure what it is, but stick with me for a little while longer and maybe I’ll be able to treat you to a scalding, skin melting hot shower.

My spine is not convinced. My shoulder blade and arm decide to side with my spine. It’s a revolt.

A shirt appears in my vision. I need more time. “Go brush your hair.”

Yes! 15 more seconds. I work my way to sitting against my back’s wishes. Apparently my spine has decided to stay. At least I think it has. Not sure I can tell anymore.

She is getting antsy. I throw on some pants and a shirt and off we go. I check my Fitbit: 4 h 37 m of sleep recorded. That’s practically sleeping in, and a good deal better than my normal “sleep not tracked.”

A lot of families have been negatively affected by the pandemic.

The pandemic has affected families of special needs children more than most. Our support systems are gone. Children and parents are under mountains of stress, and society doesn’t seem to care right now.

Stuck in our own little bubbles, it feels like we are all alone. We are the only ones struggling to sleep. The only ones struggling with rigid adherence to routine. Does anyone else have a 2-year-old with panic attacks?

Today, I’m here to say you aren’t alone. When you get 3 hours of sleep several days in a row and everything hurts, I feel you. 

If you sit down to work after putting the baby down for a nap, only to wake up to a puddle of drool on your keyboard and a very awake baby, I’ve been there. 

We need to stop criticizing moms for looking tired, not working out enough, or being stressed. Moms don’t need unsolicited advice, they need leeway. After all, you never know when they slept last or what screams might echo in their ears.

And for all the moms out there struggling, I am right there with you.

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