Right now I am sitting next to Pearl, who is screaming her displeasure with me because I had the nerve to try to put her to bed. I have tried holding her, rocking her, sternly telling her to lie down, but nothing is working. She is too tired to be consoled and too upset to give in to fatigue. If the jet lag was bad on Christmas Day, it was worse yesterday, and today? Well, I'm not even entirely sure what day it is anymore. That is how bad it's become.
I was awakened at one o'clock this morning by this strange, soft, keening wail. At first, I wasn't sure what the sound was, but when I rolled over in bed, I caught sight of Pearl, staring at me from her little toddler bed (cherry-stained wood to match our own queen-sized bed because, if you are forced to share a room with a tiny screaming hurricane, you might as well have coordinating furniture). She was the one emitting this weird cry.
Interestingly, my first coherent emotion wasn't irritation at being awakened in the middle of the night. My first emotion was happiness that Pearl felt safe enough in our home and in me as her parent to give voice to her fears in the darkness. Prior to last night, Pearl may have woken up during the night, but she never woke me up. Whatever bad dreams she dreamed, scary shapes she glimpsed in the shadows, hunger or thirst she felt...she never did a thing to make me aware of any of it. Sure, I woke up a few times and found her awake, and I attended to her in those instances, but she was always silent and stoic.
Last night, she emitted this little monotone, like a homing beacon. It wasn't a cry, really. I didn't see any tears either. It was more like the sound of a frightened baby animal waiting in the burrow, wondering when Mom was coming back to offer comfort with food and warm fur.
I stretched out my arms to her and she reached up for me. At first, I held her hands and she seemed to settle down briefly, but the sound started back up as soon as I let her go. I pulled her into my lap and - just like that - the wail ceased. Pearl smiled and gazed at me, allowing me to stroke her hair, rub her back, gently rock her side to side. When her eyelids started to droop and her body felt soft and heavy in my arms, I moved to put her back in her little bed.
Instantly, the wail picked up where it had left off. With a sigh, I picked her back up and the radiant smile appeared again. More rocking. More stroking of her hair. More gentle murmurings. 1:45 am.
Again, I moved to put her back into her toddler bed. This time, no wailing, but she tossed restlessly on the bed, a ship unmoored in the storm.
Sit up. Toss head over feet. Lie down. Roll side to side. Sit up. Toss. Lie down. Roll.
Finally, I crawled into the little bed next to her and she grabbed ahold of my arm and pulled it around to encircle her body. Her body softened. Her breathing settled. 2:10 am.
Nearly asleep myself at this point, I rolled out of her bed and into my own. Pearl's response was to toss restlessly for the next 45 minutes. Every so often, she sat up and peered over at me, likely to make sure that I hadn't disappeared into the night. Fortunately, she did not keen or cry. Eventually, she fell asleep and so did I. 2:55 am.
Parenting is a privilege, but it is also a pain.
I am a selfish person. I like my sleep. I enjoy reading real books with chapters and plots and without interruptions. I like long, hot baths - alone. I appreciate eating my own food without having to share, and by "share", I mean relinquish the tastiest bite of shrimp in my nachos or the only maraschino cherry in my sundae under threat of relentless pleading from children. When Bean was an infant, I loved the way his snuggly little body fit into my arms, but I did not like nursing and I did not like screaming. I hated sleep deprivation. At times, I resented it. After all, I was a resident; hadn't I suffered enough from broken sleep and endless work hours? I loved being a parent then and I love it now, but the privilege is also a pain.
Yes, I am overjoyed that Pearl trusts in me enough to let me know what she needs and wants, that her soul feels safe enough to look to me to hold her and soothe her in the darkness. After nearly two hours of love and soothing in the middle of the night, though, all I wanted last night was to sleep. Preferably for at least 8 straight hours. After ten minutes of crying and caterwauling and babbling in Mandarin and/or baby gibberish tonight, all I can think of is taking up alcoholism as a hobby. I tell myself that this is all temporary. Temporary. A short road stop on the long path of our lives together. Pearl won't always wake up in the middle of the night, but this is her infancy in our family and I need to look at this situation the way I would view any mother / infant dyad. Pearl won't always scream and cry "ba ba", or "hold me" at the sight of the dog or cats (and with six cats and a dog in one house, the screaming, crying, and "ba ba"ing are pretty much hourly occurrences right now). Eventually, she and I will find our rhythm together. For the time being, though, she is experimenting with her own sound and finding her own voice. She is calling out to see who answers in the darkness and testing to see if I will keep my promise to be her solace in the night.
I can give up a few nights of sleep for that, can't I?
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