I nearly killed Jack last night. On purpose.
Now, before I go any further, please believe me when I say that I love my son more than anything, even Taco Bell, and that given normal circumstances and enough sleep I genuinely enjoy him and like to be around him. He is – to some of my non-mom friend’s disgust, and quite frankly my own of women who said this before I had Jack – my entire life and life without him would simply be unlivable. So, don’t think I’m a total monster. Think of me as a sort of lesser monster, like Elmo or Oscar the Grouch: still a monster, yet harmless and kind of cute.
Okay, so qualifications done, I did want to kill my son last night. He just wouldn’t sleep, again, and at 3:30 am he was kicking and squirming and fussing and driving me over the edge of reason and sanity. Now, I can’t quite explain it, but there are these nights where I go totally ballistic when Jack won’t sleep. It’s like the slumbering rage-a-holic in me awakens every fortnight to feast on chubby baby legs. I am on the very verge of out of control, hot blood racing through my veins, adrenaline spiking, fists clenching. I feel like punching things, and often do (my bed, people, my bed!) and have had to replace my comforter cover because I tore it Hulk-a-maniac style a few months and a bad night ago.
I have told my mother, who does not seem to get how insane I become. If she did, she would probably take Jack away. What’s even more disturbing is that she sort of dismisses it, usually waving her hand as if batting at an annoying fly, and says something like, “I know! They can just drive you crazy, can’t they?” I guess I am supposed to be relieved that I am not the only one who wants to seriously injure my child, but it only makes me wond
er what she did to me...
What’s weird is that there will be many days – weeks, even – that Jack will wake up, fuss, cry, need my attention, etcetera, etcetera, and I’m fine. I’m good. I’m what you might imagine a Care Bear would look like with its little baby. I’m all nurturing and cooing and sweet. Radiant, even. That’s why these little “occurrences” are so disturbing. It’s like the Care Bear ate after midnight and suddenly grew fangs, claws, and leathery bat-like ears, Gremlins style.
So, if you’ll permit me, I will explain to you what went down last night. Jack sleeps in the bed with me, which may cause you to write me off already. People have made it very clear to me that I am forever damaging my child by allowing him to sleep in the bed for fear that he will be 8 years old and still sleeping alongside his mama. Let’s just hope that in 8 years he’s still alive and I’m not behind bars. Jack sleeps with me because he’s up every 10 minutes and there’s no way I’m getting upright that often. That, and I’m kind of a hippie and like the whole family bed thing. See Dr. Sears, naysayers.
Anways, I’m sleeping - on the edge of the bed already because somehow his little 20 pound body takes up a lot of bed surface area - and it’s about 3:00am. I have been asleep for about two and a half hours. I hear his little “heghmff” sound and I know I’m on so I scoot him over and whip out the boob. He nurses for about 15 minutes and I wait to move until he seems very asleep. I very gingerly McGuyver him back into his little swaddled position, insert the pacifier, and pat his back which is the usual sleep-producing regimen that must be followed every single damn mother fucking ti- excuse me. (Exhale..,) Every time.
Except that this time it doesn’t work. I hear his little pacifier go “chink” as he spits it out, followed by another “Ugghmfft” sound. My hand frantically – yet quietly - sweeps for the pacifier on the sheets. He’s in that delicate place between sleep and awake, his body beginning to stir. The window is narrowing and I’m patting and soothing, trying to ease him back into sleep. But then I feel an arm swing at me and I realize he’s become totally unswaddled.
Damn.
Maybe he wants to stretch, I think, optimistically. Naively. Desperately. I take the blanket away and he pulls up into a big, yawning stretch and then turns over onto his belly. Oh, so he just wanted needed a change of position, I say to myself, and I help him move his arms into comfortable positions. After replacing the pacifier into his mouth and a few minutes of gentle patting, I lay my head back down and begin to drift.
But there it is again. “Chink,” followed by a “Heghmmft.”
Dammit!
My hands sweep the bed again, but this time I hit the pacifier, sending it flying down between the headboard and the mattress and onto the ground.
Goddammit!
I have to sit up fully now and reach down for the pacifier. Jack is stirring. He bends his knees underneath him, sticks his little diapered butt up in the air, and then sits up and surveys the room. He looks dazed and bewildered, like he’s not sure how he got upright.
My hand moves wildly on the floor and I find it.
Yes!
But my arm is stuck.
Son of a fucking bitch!
Jack blinks, makes eye contact with me, and starts to wail. I can feel myself getting angry, my blood boiling, riling me up to a state where it’s almost impossible for me to fall back asleep even if Jack does. The realization that this is happening to me just makes me angrier.
My frustration taking hold, I yank my arm free and grab his little tiny body. Anger is just oozing out of my body. My face feels hot and I feel like throwing things. I’m watching myself lose it; the force of my rage has broken through what little patience I had left, fatigue having rubbed a hole in the wall that held it back. I wrap him up again and stick the pacifier into his mouth, cursing and muttering under my breath the whole time. I do everything a little too hard: the swaddling, the rocking, the bouncing… I have these horrible, yet totally soothing fantasies of swinging him by the ankle and smashing him into the bed or taking him up to Corey and Janna’s apartment and throwing him at them.
Of course, none of this is soothing to him and he wails even louder, undoubtedly because he realizes his mother’s gone postal and is now jamming a pacifier into his mouth with a little more than a tad bit of hostility. I feel myself slipping further and further into insanity and the awareness that I am ready to squeeze the life out of him sobers me. I take him to his crib, lay him down and walk away, all the while fuming with this indescribable and totally irrational rage. My blood is pumping so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear his frantic sobs from his bedroom. I lie down on my bed, pull the covers over my head, and yell to him, “Mommy’s going to sleep. I don’t know what you’re doing, but Mommy’s going to sleep!”
I wanted him to feel bad. I wanted to punish him for being so damn needy, for requiring so much from me. I wanted him to see how irrational he was being, waking up in the middle of the night and demanding more and more and more. I wanted to scream at him, “What the hell do you want from me? I can only do so much! Can’t you understand this?”
I pounded the bed with my fists and threw some pillows across the room, letting myself have the temper tantrum I had been holding back. My hearing came back after a moment and suddenly I was aware of him again. I could hear him crying, crying these racking, miserable sobs, gulping for breath and air, hysterical and alone. Nine months old and banished in the middle of the night.
Enter self loathing.
I hated myself. I hated myself for leaving him alone, for being rough with him, for exposing him to such unsafe, scary energy. I hated that I had raged at him and then abandoned him simply because he had asked for his needs to be met. I hated that he didn’t understand any of this, that he could internalize this event and decide that asking for things is dangerous and wrong.
Shame, mixed with grief and sadness overcame me and I cried. I cried and I cried and I cried, the tears taking with them my anger and anxiety and fear. I curled up around myself and held the younger one inside of me who so desperately needed comfort, and I stayed there with her for a moment. This was what I needed now, to be held and nurtured, to have Someone bigger than me wrap Her arms around me and breathe with me. My body relaxed into this embrace and I let go of whatever it was I was holding onto: the fear of losing control, the ideas that I am not enough, the belief that things will not get better. Soothed and held, sanity returned to me and I opened my eyes.
I went into Jack’s room where he stood in his crib, his hands wrapped tightly around the bars of his crib, his face wet with tears. He was such a wreck that he didn’t even see me before I scooped him up, my heart filled with compassion. I held him close to me while he tried to catch his breath between sobs. “Forgive me, Jack. Please forgive me. I get so tired. It’s not your fault.”
I sat with him in the rocking chair, his body hot and unyielding. He shook with emotion as I whispered mantras of love into his ears. I prayed that he would forgive me, that I would forgive me, that this moment of repair would heal what had been broken.
After a while, his crying slowed down. His body became heavier and he laid his head down in the bend of my arm. He sighed, placed his hand upon my chest and began to breathe with me. Soothed and held, he let go of whatever he was holding onto, closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.
