By Elly Mullins
A Loving Command About Rest
For anyone who has spent time with an infant, or time with someone who has had an infant, you know that the period after a baby is born is exhausting. But not exhausting in the way a college all-nighter is exhausting. And not exhausting in the way January 1st is exhausting. It’s a prolonged period of zombie-like sleeplessness with no promise of an end.
After my son was born, I slept in 45 minute periods for about four months. At some point, it grew to become two chunks of about four hours of sleep. I remember taking him to a doctor’s appointment once and wondering how many other people were driving around half-asleep with newborns in the backseat – and should we even be allowed on the road in this impaired state of mind?
My sleepless life with a newborn continued this way until one day when he was about seven months; my sister-in-law told me she had booked a room for us at a bed and breakfast an hour away. Our room would be tucked behind a bookcase in the library of the inn, she told me. We would have to search to find the secret entrance.
“Let’s go!” she pleaded, “It’s already booked, and I’m not going alone.” The weather forecast promised 24 hours of sleet accompanied by icy temperatures. She had only one item on our getaway agenda: sleep.
I hesitated to accept this invitation to go away for the night. My then-husband had never spent 24 hours alone with our son. He had never done “night duty.” My son had never been away from me for more than a couple of hours. I could easily see the many reasons why this would be a bad idea, but my sister-in-law would not hear them. When she said, “Let’s go,” this was not, in fact, an invitation. This was a command. I would be going away with her for the night, regardless of my worries.
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I knew I was tired, but I hadn’t realized how evident it was to people around me. Those closest to me saw me moving through each day and week and month in a version of myself that was empty. I thought this was normal: everyone had warned me that parenthood was exhausting, and the task of keeping another human alive was the most important role I’d ever had. At that point, I wasn’t spending much time with other new parents, and I had no real frame of reference.
If I had listened to my internal voice, I would have kept pushing on in that state. I would have continued to endure the sleepless nights until that magical day everyone promised was just over the horizon: the day my child would sleep through the night in his own bedroom. I needed someone else to intervene and press pause.
I am not alone in this kind of thinking. Many of us believe that the more we do, the more value we have. The harder we push, the stronger we are. We busy ourselves with work and friends, caring for our children and keeping our homes clean, scheduling our weekends with activities for ourselves and our families. It takes an outside force (in some cases, several) – an observant sister-in-law, bad weather, being away from home – to carve out that much needed period of repose.
When my sister-in-law and I returned home after less than 24 hours away, I found my son and his father laying on the couch napping. My son’s limp body was draped over his father’s, their cheeks pressed together, both mouths hanging open. The harmony of their snores made me smile as I noted the similarities between father and son. I didn’t have to use my imagination to know what their night had been like, but I also didn’t worry. Less than 24 hours of rest was enough to recharge me, clear my mind, and enable me to see what I could not the day before: everything would be just fine.
Undoubtedly, my physical exhaustion came from the prolonged lack of sleep I had been experiencing, but my mental exhaustion was from my need for control. At the time, I needed someone else to help me see this, and I needed to accept the help. Since then, the most challenging work I have done for myself has been in my effort to internalize my sister-in-law’s message – a loving command: “Let’s go.” Take a break. Let go.
Photo by Holly Mandarich on Unsplash
