The Motherhood of Sleep

Head to head, we synchronize our breathing, his hand reaches to pat my back. He's learning to do that. I swim in the dark of sound and body, it's all I can do to regulate quiet convulses, emotion deep enough to give her the space she needs. Down the hall, night lights every ten feet, screams ride a palette of tone, and I am a symphony of tears with hers.

There's nothing easy about letting my girl sit with fear.

"It's hard because I remember that place, " I whisper to him. Just the way he sighs, I know he's traveling back to childhood aloneness. The warmth emanates between torsos and time held in waiting. We wait and let her cry herself into the depths of being small and alone and afraid.

It's 3am, two hours into this trek we take each night. Two hours and four rounds of holding, assuring, protecting, loving. I see the marriage counselor repeating, "I'm concerned about what looks like a profound lack of self-care, Prema. You have to sleep."

Down the hall, wet trails on red cheeks, I kiss her forehead, "River, mama loves you. I know it's hard to feel afraid, but you are safe right now. You are safe and you are loved. Mama cannot be a good mama if I don't sleep. I have to go to bed."

Racking sobs, pleas, helpless gasps and chokes of despair. Down that road I feel into all the images of myself as a child, knowing just how it feels to cry into a pillow for hours. Thirty minutes later and I am wrapping my legs around hers, accept the clasp of tiny fingers in mine. We rock slowly into sleep just before the light of dawn hits the horizon.

I shape shift away from her, open mouth to the sky, and tip toe back to bed. Back to where I passed the exit to sleep hours ago. The tax form floats across my mind. Occupation: homemaker. Translation: slacker. Several people have asked me lately if I work outside the home. Gravity fills the silence, blankly, "No."

The sun moves across the curtains, dancing fish, spots of light, and I awaken to the chime of the repeating alarm.