Needing sleep

And now she lies here blowing raspberries at me like it’s all a big joke.

1.32 AM my clock reads.

She’s fed and slept, but I’ve snatched only pockets of twenty minutes sleep at a time.

Third night in a row.

Hubbie took her downstairs. He said kindly, ‘Get some sleep love.’

But as I snuggled into the pillow I thought, ‘What’s the point, as I’m not going to be given the luxury of deep restorative sleep, this is just a teaser.’

My head hurts.

Coffee won’t fix this in the morning.

How will I have the patience to mother three children.  Disagreements and grumbles will be intolerable to deal with.  They take careful mediating, distractions, careful guidance from a gentle voice.

Modelling good behaviour 24/7 takes stamina and the patience of a saint.

I hate the angry knot of tired frustration within me right now. I hate my children seeing me like this; losing my rag, shouting for peace, crying in shame and asking to be forgiven again. 

I want to enjoy these two weeks of school holidays with them and not be beaten down by sleep deprivation. I don’t want Alice to be labelled as the cause, though through no fault of her own she is.  

I hope this virus, that has struck poor Alice, fades into oblivion fast.

I need sleep. For without it I fear a cloud of angry depression will knock at my door. It’s visited before; when the torture of sleep deprivation drove my serotonin levels so low that only medication helped to restore the balance.

My senses dulled. I lose my appetite. I eat only because I need to, not for pleasure. I walk through the supermarket and fail to smell the aroma of freshly baked bread. 

I break down and cry when folding laundry; it all seems too hard.

I thump the wall with a fist of frustration when bickering drives me to breaking point. A vicious circle. If I don’t reign in my temper it will infect everyone like a plague.

How I hate to be the one to carry the weighty responsibilty of the mood of the family. 

I want time out for me. I need just 10 minutes – or should that be 36 minutes – one for every year. Time to let it out into a pillow that won’t be scarred by my tears, just damp with pity.

Then I’ll feel better, for a while.