The Nights That Feel Like Forever
I know it gets better.
Because I’ve done this before.
But I’m at the beginning where it feels like there’s no end.
I’m in the nights that feel like forever.
I know the broken sleep pieces itself together over time (in our case never completely) and that I’ll be able to give more to my older children eventually, more to myself.
I know the nights won’t always feel this lonely. Head lolling back, eyes dazed and unfocused. Sleeping with one eye open, waiting for snuffling or the kind of cry that twists your heart.
I know this gentle world in the dark full of frustration, tenderness, aches, and love will separate itself from day, as she one day separates herself from me.
I know the curtains won’t always be drawn, white noise blaring, minutes turned hours of awake time - all for sleep. That weary feeling that sits in your chest as the sun goes down.
I know I won’t always be moving my phone in front face camera to see if her eyes are finally closed, watching her intently as I place her down all to watch her squirm for me a few seconds later (the defeat of it).
I know I won’t be up all night feeding, a burp cloth shoved in one side of my top, patting little windy backs, waking when she actually is sleeping to check if she’s ok.
I know these wriggly little limbs, the perfect weight of her, her tiny face that takes me in at 3am. I know it’s worth every inch of what’s to come. That comfort and mother are a synonym of each other.
It doesn’t make it easier.
Though I know the fatigue gets better.
But right now I’m in the tunnel of the nights that feel like forever.