4:30am. I storm into Evan’s bedroom with a scowl on my face.
“Go to sleep, it’s too early for this bullshit.”
Yes. I just cursed at my almost 13-month-old son. Escandaloso, si. I can only image my mother’s outrage. “Que palabra mas fea!” Mami would say.
Thing is I’m not feeling very pretty right now.
The natural dark circles under my eyes have worsened; I look like a battered woman. What used to be combed and blown out tresses are now a nest on my head. My locks haven’t seen the inside of a beauty salon in months. My nails, once Instafamous due to my meticulous and creative nail air, are chipped and uneven. It seems that no matter how hard I try to get back to me, as a new mom, I just can’t seem to get my shit together.
I’ve lost my keys 3 times. I forget meetings. The fridge has been void of fresh groceries for weeks.
And I’m angry. Today I am angry that it’s 4:30am and my kid just won’t go…the fuck…to sleep. I am angry because I miss sleep. I was a great sleeper; I could sleep 10 hours straight, easy. Now I’m lucky if I get 6 hours. And it’s killing my spirit.
I feel like a zombie and zombies are deadly. They hobble about with blank stares…numb. So numb. Like lost souls.
I just told my 13 month old that his 4:30am wake ups are bullshit.
I don’t regret it. Like a zombie remains unaffected after the kill, I do not give a shit right now. Evan continues to cry, “maaaa!” because he wants me to pick him up. Me? I go back to bed. “I’m so fucking done,” I mumble while wrapping my head under blankets and put a pillow over my head to snuff out the noise.
The noise. All Evan does is whine. He moans almost every second of the day. Mami says I was just like that as a child, I don’t know how she dealt with it. Actually, I do know. She nurtured and coddled me often, and yeah, sometimes she was annoyed enough that she’d yell, “Shut the fuck up!” In Spanish, of course. So it was more like, “Callaaaateeeee!”
I’m also tired of rocking him to sleep. It’s Dave and I’s fault to an extent; Evan has refused to sleep on his own since he came out of my tummy (last minute C-section baby). It’s not a habit we developed but one that we cultivated. We catered to Evan and continued to develop a negative sleep association.
Today, at 4:30am…and 5am…and 6am, I refuse to rock and walk and bounce. Not only am I emotionally drained but my body can’t physically do it anymore. Evan is now 20 pounds and I. Just. Can’t.
So I walk away. He cries. I cry. Not because I feel bad. I honestly don’t give a shit at this moment. I cry because I miss my life. I miss sleep. I miss freedom. I miss taking a long warm shower in the morning and exfoliating my skin. I miss drinking a hot cup of coffee in the morning without having to run around and cater to anyone. By the time I drink my coffee it’s as cold as ice and I’m over it.
I’m over cooking every day, cleaning and taking care of everyone but myself.
I’m tired of stifling my voice and suppressing my feelings to not rock the boat or look like a bad mom.
I’m tired of being judged for being tired. I’m tired of being expected to be a superwoman not by my partner, but by myself. I’m done with pretending everything is fine, that I am fine. This is not fine.
So I leave Evan in his crib and walk away as he cries. Something I said I would never do – the cry it out method. But I am at my wits end, I am exhausted, and I just don’t give a shit.
I don’t want to be superwoman any more. I’m hanging up my cape, going to sleep and drinking a hot cup of Cafe Bustelo in the morning.
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