Co-sleeping

In motherhood, our bodies are not our own

Photo by Taisiia Shestopal on Unsplash

A few days ago, I had a dream in which I was struggling with my blood pressure. I had blood pressure cuffs on the upper part of each arm, constricting uncomfortably off and on. I think I was in a hospital and there were doctors describing my condition using words that sounded like medical terminology but that were probably made-up. It was a stressful dream; I was worried about my health and my movement was restricted by these blood pressure cuffs.

When I woke up, it was early morning and I was laying flat on my back. I could tell the sun was just beginning to rise behind the window blinds. My children had snuck in from their beds during the night, and each was sleeping soundly tucked into an armpit. I was dreaming that I was being squeezed by blood pressure cuffs because I had the weight of a child laying across both arms-snuggled up to my chest on either side.

I wanted to free my arms and stretch, but of course I risked waking them. I’d rather stay pinned beneath them, knowing that it won’t be long before they stir and our day will begin. I need them to sleep.

Even in dreams, I am not alone. My mind is asleep but my body is still on call, there for their warmth and security. I am in bed and I am the bed, I am the pillow, the familiar scent, the reassuring warmth of another body in the dark.

When they were born, as soon as they slid from me I reached for them. They needed skin-to-skin contact, all the books said so. I brought them to my chest and they knew just what to do. My modesty was forgotten in an instant, my body given new purpose.

My children are 8 and 4. Skin-to-skin looks different now, but they still crave it. As soon as I sit down, desperate to relax, they come scurrying over, fighting for the best seat. My lap or glued to a hip. When she is sleepy but can’t sleep, my four year old wants to grab the skin beneath my chin to stroke like a worry stone. I am the worry and I am the stone.

Most days I am tired. I want to be alone. I know that time will come, but not yet. My body is not completely mine again. I made a promise and I will keep it. I let them sneak into the bed. I let them sneak into my dreams.

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In this post, I wanted to speak to my fellow exhausted parents. In therapy, I work with many mothers of infants and young children. It is such a gift to me, as a mother myself, to see my own experience reflected back to me in the experience of others. I get to see how normal my feelings are, even the ones that make me feel ashamed or not enough. I hear how common it is to feel “touched out” by our young children. I hear about the difficulty of feeling constantly “on.” I hear about the disorientation that can come with new parenthood and that adjustment in identity. I know that the exhaustion of parenthood can sometimes manifest as irritability or anger; the last thing that any of us want to feel around our kids.

I have the benefit of peaking behind the curtains of other people’s lives and seeing how similarly we all feel. But most people do not have this luxury. Parenthood can be isolating. It can feel like you are the only one struggling and everyone else has it all figured out.

So here is a peak behind my curtain, where we are often exhausted and uncertain and just hoping that we are doing well enough by our kids. We are, and you are too.

A book I found helpful in understanding myself as a parent:

Parenting from the Inside Out: How a Deeper Self-Understanding Can Help You Raise Children Who Thrive by Dan Siegel and Mary Hartzell