Life, Liberty, and The Pursuit of Sleep
Ask any new parent what they miss the most about “before” and I can almost guarantee you their answer will be sleep.
And I’m no different.
Five months in, I found myself awake at 3am trying to rationalize with my baby, asking her why she used to sleep in three to four hour stretches, but recently she was waking up every 45 minutes and screaming until one of us put the pacifier back in her mouth.
Nobody was sleeping: not her, not my partner, Rob and certainly not me.
Lack of sleep is a form of torture. Literally. A report released by the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence looked at the CIA’s detention and interrogation program following 9/11, and found that sleep deprivation was used as an “enhanced interrogation technique.”
Even outside of war zones, lack of sleep contributes to mood changes, memory issues, weakened immunity, weight gain, trouble focusing, low sex drive and risk of heart disease. In short, parents who don’t sleep have trouble doing exactly what they need to do most - parent.
So, here the three of us were, wide awake while it was still dark out, again.
What happened next went something like this:
Me: “We’ve got to do something.”
Rob: “I’ve been saying that for months now.”
Me: “Well, what would you like to do?”
Rob: “Let’s sleep train her.”
Me: “So, basically what you’re saying is that you want to let our child cry for hours until she falls asleep and not respond to her?”
Clearly, the conversation didn’t go so well. Not only were we exhausted, but our bandwidth for ev-er-y-thing, including each other, had reached a resounding zilch.
I was philosophically opposed to sleep training. Rob was philosophically all for it.
And then it hit me: my friend who lived down the street was going to visit her mom for a long weekend. I could go stay at her apartment while Rob sleep trained our baby. It would be the best of all worlds. He would test out the sleep training waters. And I would get some much-needed rest (and I wouldn’t have to be there to hear her cry and cry and cry.)
That first night when I left I was the one who was crying. I hadn’t been away from Clementine for more than an hour or two since she was born - and if you count the nine months I was pregnant, even longer. When I settled into my friend’s apartment, I swore I could hear Clementine crying from 10 blocks away, which of course wasn’t true (I blame the hormones).
As the weekend went on, Rob sent me photos of her sleeping soundly in her crib, and kept me updated via text. And then something magical happened: I fell asleep. Not just any sleep, but a deep sleep, a sleep that lasted for a magical eight hours.
When I woke up I opened my eyes, I savored something I hadn’t noticed in a long time: the sound of my breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The room was quiet. The room was bright. The room was cozy. The room was my own.
Suddenly the realization that I had three whole days by myself in this room made me giddy. I could do anything I wanted. Read the newspaper in peace. Nap. Eat mac and powdered cheese from a box and drink hot chocolate - also from a box - to my heart’s content (I know that sounds gross, but that was exactly the point).
I could take a walk without telling anyone - and without taking half an hour to make sure I had the baby’s bottle, and diapers, and hat, and everything I could possibly need, packed into our overloaded diaper bag.
I could take an extra long shower. Not change my clothes. Call everyone I knew for long rambling conversations. Or call no one, and just enjoy my own company.
My time was mine and mine alone.
I hadn’t slept for eight hours not only since Clementine was born, but for the many months before I gave birth (surprise - the late stages of pregnancy aren’t conducive to sleeping either).
And with one good night’s sleep, I felt almost human again. My synapses were firing. My brain was back in action. My creative juices were flowing. Ideas were being transmitted from my head into my blue notebook. I. Had. Ideas.
I couldn’t believe all of the amazing benefits of sleep. And I had two more nights ahead of me. It was like the best birthday present and Hanukkah present wrapped into one.
Yet, it isn’t lost on me that “a room of one’s own” is a privilege afforded to the few and far between. I am white. I am middle class. I am able-bodied, and healthy, and my partner and child are too.
I am privileged.
During Black History Month, it’s more important than ever that we recognize the emotional and physical labor of parenting - and just living as a Black person in America - can be exhausting.
Black womxn have had to build a room of their own in this country - both literally and metaphorically.
I know what those few days did for me: for my body, for my brain, for my sense of self. It allowed me to slow down, to breathe, to find my center again, so that I could go back to my home and my work, and my partner and my baby with a newfound energy and excitement that I believed had been lost forever.
I don’t deserve a room of my own any more than the next parent. In fact, if any of the powers that be are listening, I advocate for all birthing people to have a room of their own, even if just for a few hours. I advocate for all birthing people to have a chance to feel human again.
The tenets of our country are built on the idea of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” for all and I’m pretty sure our founding fathers would agree that happiness is having a room of one’s own - and giving ourselves the time and permission time to enjoy it.