Reflections of a sleep deprived parent

I wake up again, hear the slight creak of the door, feel the weight shifting on my bed, there’s someone there, someone other than my spouse and I. I wait with bated breath as the weight shifts, closer...closer… “Daddy, are you awake?” a small voice whispers. I sigh externally, and cry internally. For the seeming millionth time, one of my children is coming to invade our bed, to wriggle and squirm, to lie down horizontally, to grizzle when I try to shift them vertically, and scream in outrage if I dare attempt to take them back to their own bed.

It’s Sunday night as I write this, but it could be any night. There aren’t any weekends anymore, no work nights, no time off, no holidays, just the kids. They’re always there, taking everything, even the sleep we need to stay sane, productive, loving parents.

A few months back and by some magical cosmological alignment, some angelic intervention, or by the hand of God themself, for 4 nights in a row both kids slept through. It was wonderful, restorative, rejuvenating, life felt like it had colour and joy again, the daily minutiae of raising children even started to become enjoyable again, my partner and I felt like we hadn’t felt since she was first pregnant… something like real people again. We thanked God and rejoiced at the new normal. How hopefully we were. We should have known it wouldn’t last, but we were so thankful.

But like all children, sometimes when we ask for bread, our parents still only have rocks to give because we’re poor, tired, and heart broken. I’m not sure what God’s excuse is.

The rational part of me of course knows that our children love us, that they’re scared in the night and just want the comforting, warm, reassuring presence of their parents. I understand it and even love that I can be the safe, loving, protective Dad for those two beautiful children; but at 11am 1am, 3am, 4am, the sleep deprived part looks and only sees tiny vampires taking the last scrap of my mental resources that I need to love them.

I know I will always love my kids, always die for them, hell, always kill for them; but in the night when I’m exhausted, existing on 4 hours of broken sleep a night for the 600th night in a row, I think the worst thoughts. I get how parents ‘go for a pack of cigerettes’, I get how parents shake their kids, I get how partners turn on each other, I get how depression and anxiety forms from kid pressure alone, I get suicidal thoughts.

I wish I had a happy ending to this post. I wish i could end with life changing advice. I wish I could tell you I didn't want to punch every person who thinks they're reassuring me by saying "it doesn't last forever", or "you'll miss it when it's over" or "just take them back to bed". I wish I could, but I don't want to lie to you.

All i can say is is if this resonates at all, hi, and If you feel this way too, know that you’re not alone.

I wake up again, hear the slight creak of the door, feel the weight shifting on my bed, there’s someone there, someone other than my spouse and I. I wait with bated breath as the weight shifts, closer...closer… “Daddy, are you awake?” a small voice whispers. I sigh externally, and cry internally. For the seeming millionth time, one of my children is coming to invade our bed, to wriggle and squirm, to lie down horizontally, to grizzle when I try to shift them vertically, and scream in outrage if I dare attempt to take them back to their own bed.

It’s Sunday night as I write this, but it could be any night. There aren’t any weekends anymore, no work nights, no time off, no holidays, just the kids. They’re always there, taking everything, even the sleep we need to stay sane, productive, loving parents.

A few months back and by some magical cosmological alignment, some angelic intervention, or by the hand of God themself, for 4 nights in a row both kids slept through. It was wonderful, restorative, rejuvenating, life felt like it had colour and joy again, the daily minutiae of raising children even started to become enjoyable again, my partner and I felt like we hadn’t felt since she was first pregnant… something like real people again. We thanked God and rejoiced at the new normal. How hopefully we were. We should have known it wouldn’t last, but we were so thankful.

But like all children, sometimes when we ask for bread, our parents still only have rocks to give because we’re poor, tired, and heart broken. I’m not sure what God’s excuse is.

The rational part of me of course knows that our children love us, that they’re scared in the night and just want the comforting, warm, reassuring presence of their parents. I understand it and even love that I can be the safe, loving, protective Dad for those two beautiful children; but at 11am 1am, 3am, 4am, the sleep deprived part looks and only sees tiny vampires taking the last scrap of my mental resources that I need to love them.

I know I will always love my kids, always die for them, hell, always kill for them; but in the night when I’m exhausted, existing on 4 hours of broken sleep a night for the 600th night in a row, I think the worst thoughts. I get how parents ‘go for a pack of cigerettes’, I get how parents shake their kids, I get how partners turn on each other, I get how depression and anxiety forms from kid pressure alone, I get suicidal thoughts.

I wish I had a happy ending to this post. I wish i could end with life changing advice. I wish I could tell you I didn't want to punch every person who thinks they're reassuring me by saying "it doesn't last forever", or "you'll miss it when it's over" or "just take them back to bed". I wish I could, but I don't want to lie to you.

All i can say is is if this resonates at all, hi, and If you feel this way too, know that you’re not alone.

I wake up again, hear the slight creak of the door, feel the weight shifting on my bed, there’s someone there, someone other than my spouse and I. I wait with bated breath as the weight shifts, closer...closer… “Daddy, are you awake?” a small voice whispers. I sigh externally, and cry internally. For the seeming millionth time, one of my children is coming to invade our bed, to wriggle and squirm, to lie down horizontally, to grizzle when I try to shift them vertically, and scream in outrage if I dare attempt to take them back to their own bed.

It’s Sunday night as I write this, but it could be any night. There aren’t any weekends anymore, no work nights, no time off, no holidays, just the kids. They’re always there, taking everything, even the sleep we need to stay sane, productive, loving parents.

A few months back and by some magical cosmological alignment, some angelic intervention, or by the hand of God themself, for 4 nights in a row both kids slept through. It was wonderful, restorative, rejuvenating, life felt like it had colour and joy again, the daily minutiae of raising children even started to become enjoyable again, my partner and I felt like we hadn’t felt since she was first pregnant… something like real people again. We thanked God and rejoiced at the new normal. How hopefully we were. We should have known it wouldn’t last, but we were so thankful.

But like all children, sometimes when we ask for bread, our parents still only have rocks to give because we’re poor, tired, and heart broken. I’m not sure what God’s excuse is.

The rational part of me of course knows that our children love us, that they’re scared in the night and just want the comforting, warm, reassuring presence of their parents. I understand it and even love that I can be the safe, loving, protective Dad for those two beautiful children; but at 11am 1am, 3am, 4am, the sleep deprived part looks and only sees tiny vampires taking the last scrap of my mental resources that I need to love them.

I know I will always love my kids, always die for them, hell, always kill for them; but in the night when I’m exhausted, existing on 4 hours of broken sleep a night for the 600th night in a row, I think the worst thoughts. I get how parents ‘go for a pack of cigerettes’, I get how parents shake their kids, I get how partners turn on each other, I get how depression and anxiety forms from kid pressure alone, I get suicidal thoughts.

I wish I had a happy ending to this post. I wish i could end with life changing advice. I wish I could tell you I didn't want to punch every person who thinks they're reassuring me by saying "it doesn't last forever", or "you'll miss it when it's over" or "just take them back to bed". I wish I could, but I don't want to lie to you.

All i can say is is if this resonates at all, hi, and If you feel this way too, know that you’re not alone.

All i can say is is if this resonates at all, hi, and If you feel this way too, know that you’re not alone.

I wake up again, hear the slight creak of the door, feel the weight shifting on my bed, there’s someone there, someone other than my spouse and I. I wait with bated breath as the weight shifts, closer...closer… “Daddy, are you awake?” a small voice whispers. I sigh externally, and cry internally. For the seeming millionth time, one of my children is coming to invade our bed, to wriggle and squirm, to lie down horizontally, to grizzle when I try to shift them vertically, and scream in outrage if I dare attempt to take them back to their own bed.

It’s Sunday night as I write this, but it could be any night. There aren’t any weekends anymore, no work nights, no time off, no holidays, just the kids. They’re always there, taking everything, even the sleep we need to stay sane, productive, loving parents.

A few months back and by some magical cosmological alignment, some angelic intervention, or by the hand of God themself, for 4 nights in a row both kids slept through. It was wonderful, restorative, rejuvenating, life felt like it had colour and joy again, the daily minutiae of raising children even started to become enjoyable again, my partner and I felt like we hadn’t felt since she was first pregnant… something like real people again. We thanked God and rejoiced at the new normal. How hopefully we were. We should have known it wouldn’t last, but we were so thankful.

But like all children, sometimes when we ask for bread, our parents still only have rocks to give because we’re poor, tired, and heart broken. I’m not sure what God’s excuse is.

The rational part of me of course knows that our children love us, that they’re scared in the night and just want the comforting, warm, reassuring presence of their parents. I understand it and even love that I can be the safe, loving, protective Dad for those two beautiful children; but at 11am 1am, 3am, 4am, the sleep deprived part looks and only sees tiny vampires taking the last scrap of my mental resources that I need to love them.

I know I will always love my kids, always die for them, hell, always kill for them; but in the night when I’m exhausted, existing on 4 hours of broken sleep a night for the 600th night in a row, I think the worst thoughts. I get how parents ‘go for a pack of cigerettes’, I get how parents shake their kids, I get how partners turn on each other, I get how depression and anxiety forms from kid pressure alone, I get suicidal thoughts.

I wish I had a happy ending to this post. I wish i could end with life changing advice. I wish I could tell you I didn't want to punch every person who thinks they're reassuring me by saying "it doesn't last forever", or "you'll miss it when it's over" or "just take them back to bed". I wish I could, but I don't want to lie to you.

All i can say is is if this resonates at all, hi, and If you feel this way too, know that you’re not alone.