Confessions of a Sleep Deprived Mom

As I write this, I am lying next to my youngest son in his toddler size bed, balancing my laptop on my knees, sharing a Lightning McQueen blanket. I try to take to heart the secret that all wise women a decade or so ahead of me know: “enjoy it. It goes so fast.” I know that in a few years they will lock me out of their bedrooms, and not let me hug them in public.

My mother in law once told me, “you love your kids the most when they are sleeping.” How true. When my son was a baby, I used to sit and watch his eyelids bob up and down in that sleepy dance, and witness the exact moment when he finally relaxed into dreams. It’s the most glorious thing, a deep exhale. Everything seems right with the world when my kids are tucked in their beds where I know they are safe. In that moment, it doesn’t matter how I got them to sleep. It doesn’t matter if I’m a working, a stay at home, a helicopter, attachment, green, vegan, ferber, or any other qualifier we feel the need to put in front of the part that really matters: Mom.

Sleep is the white whale of parenting— elusive, enticing, driving us all to madness. Through the six years I have been lucky enough to be called “Mama,” the most important piece of advice I have ever gotten has been, “trust yourself.” There are an infinite number of books, articles, message boards, and well meaning friends that will offer all sorts of conflicting advice. At the end of the day, you will have to put your hand on your heart and decide which ones feel true for you, let everything else go, and know that you are still going to screw it up sometimes.

With that in mind, I present to you a small glance at my journey of chasing after the white whale. These are my confessions:

credit: liikennevalo via photopin cc

1. The first time I knew I had no idea what I was doing as a parent, was the night I brought my son home from the hospital and realized I didn’t know how to put him to sleep.
2. I had read ten pregnancy books but didn’t even know there was such a thing as different methods for getting baby to sleep through the night.
3. We first started co-sleeping because I kept getting up to check that my son was still breathing. The bassinet on the other side of the room felt miles away.
4. Sometimes when he would wake up early I would put on baby einstein videos and be able to get an extra half-hour of sleep while he sat mesmerized in front of the tv.
5. My doctor told me that nursing him to sleep was a bad habit. I did it anyway.
6. I used to take two hour naps with him laying on my chest.
7. Everything revolved around nap time.
8. Co-sleeping was wonderful.
9. Co-sleeping was awful.
10. My two boys who are now 3 and 6 have their own bunk bed, but we still all sleep in the same room.
11. Every article on facebook tells me how important sleep is and it’s infuriating.
12. Sometimes I let my 3 year old watch videos on my iphone until he falls asleep.
13. Sometimes I let my 6 year old sleep in my bed.
14. My 3 year old still finds it comforting to reach into my shirt and rest his tiny hand on one of my breasts, or “nummas” as he calls them. He often falls asleep this way.
15. I have spent many hours and lots of gas waiting for children to fall asleep while circling the block in the car.
16. I feel exhausted just hearing the phrase, “sleep training.”
17. I envy mothers that kiss good-night, close the door, and go on with their evening, but I’ve never felt compelled enough to try and be one.
18. A rustle of blankets is enough to wake me up at 2am.
19. In the morning, the boys pile onto my bed (if they are not already sleeping there) and immediately start wrestling and rolling around like puppies. Sometimes I laugh, and sometimes I hide under my pillow and try not to get kicked in the face.
20. I like to imagine that we are all just figuring it out as we go along. It feels good to throw up my hands and say, “fine, one more cartoon before bed.”
21. I don’t want to hear about your baby that has slept twelve hours straight since the moment they were born.
22. I do want to know what show you binge watch after the kids go to bed, or what book you are reading, or wine you are drinking.
23. I still live for that moment when the eyelids close and their breath becomes deep and rhythmic and I’m free to do whatever I want, including linger a few more minutes and tell myself I’m the luckiest mom in the world.

* This post first appeared on Mogul, a women's website where I am now a contributing writer!

Finding Time For What You Love: Guest Post by Author Renee des Lauriers

Check out her book on Amazon!

A good writing buddy is precious. It's the rare combination of a sympathetic ear, a cheerleader, and a friendly but firm kick in the pants. Renee has been that for me and more. The other day I called her up and we chatted about our lives and writing and how we both wish we lived closer together. She was about to get on an airplane when I asked if she would like to do a guest post for my blog. Like a boss, she wrote this on the plane and sent it to me a few hours later. Behold, the life of a published author:

It started on a purple couch with a dream, caffeine and a blank computer screen. It continued with fierce word wars, the pattering taps on keyboard keys with loud coffee slurps and furrowed eyebrows. It was the birth of my first novel. A novel that was more than just a novel. It was the dream that survived from childhood-the dream of a dyslexic girl struggling to prove that she was as smart as everyone else. A girl who had entire landscapes and characters and worlds to share if only she could get them out of her mind and on to the blank page.

How do writers write? How do they do it? I know that I can't speak for everybody but I can certainly say that I wouldn't be able to do it without my writing buddies, Naomi des Lauriers and Laurel Nakai. There is something about hearing their fingers moving across keyboards, a sound as many and plentiful as rain that really lets me know that I need to get moving already.

Now that I am on the other side of America, figuring out what I want from life on the desert sands of Las Vegas, I find myself stuck. So begins my writers block and a settling in to non-writing.

"it's so easy to forget what we are made of and what we can do when we are drowning in life's minutiae."

It's not that dreams die. They just get buried in responsibilities- those everyday things like shopping for food and paying the electric bill so that the power won't get shut off and keeping lint off the carpet. It isn't that those things are more important than passion, it's just that it's so easy to forget what we are made of and what we can do when we are drowning in life's minutiae.


There's something so necessary about having supportive people in your life. I was blessed to have the best sort of friends-the sort who believed in my dreams and supported me in the day to day fight not to give in to trivialities and time wasters, but to instead give to those things that I believe in and want most.

Stuck in the day to day grind, it's easy to forget what writing has added to my life. I shot my first gun so that I could know what it felt like and capture the experience accurately in ink. I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and made Dunkin Donuts employees vaguely uncomfortable all in the name of art. It was all in order to accurately capture the spirit of the zombie apocalypse.

I remember when Hurricane Sandy hit in fall and the power went out, Naomi and I lit up hundreds of candles and started writing through it. I remember writing on line at the bank, on buses, in hot tubs, in food courts at casinos. I wrote on Laurel's couch so often that I sincerely hope that she never sells it as so much of my sweat and passion and coffee spills have seeped into the fabric.I am writing these very words above the clouds on a Spirit airplane.

"whatever it is that you love to do, do it."

Writing is an act of creation. It is taking something intangible from the hidden recesses of the mind then ripping it forth into the real world and down upon paper. I know that writing is not for everybody. For others it could be cooking, jogging, photography or gardening. I just hope that for every person out there, whatever it is that you love to do, do it. Do it every day, even if it's just for five minutes. Even if it's just for one. Because having that something adds a spice and a wonder to life that wouldn't be there without that individual take on the world. It makes me not merely exist, but live. So, from far away I'm holding on to my writing buddies and holding on to my dreams one word at a time.

Renee des Lauriers is the author of The Oxygen Factory (Sunbury Press, Inc.) She resides in Las Vegas, where she teaches high school English and raises chinchillas. 

The Power of Grief

This year, I lost my grandmother, an aunt, a family friend who was like an uncle, a high school classmate, and remembered the one year anniversary of a good friend’s passing. This happened all within a span of about four months. It was as if the Universe was holding back tragedy, only to have it spill over all at once. I can see now, that these and other events significantly contributed to my stress and a slow but steady spiral into depression, but at the time I couldnt fathom what was happening. I felt like the world around me was speeding past, while I was sloshing through mud, desperately trying to gain a foothold. By mid July, I was at the bottom of a pit, not knowing how I had gotten there or how to pull myself out.

It’s been a gradual process, a rope made of self-care, support from family and friends, therapy, and self expression. I am by no means an expert and I know that everyone has their own unique way of grieving. I consider myself an optimist, not in the sense that I’m happy all the time, but that even in the midst of tragedy I try to find something positive that I can take from it. For better or worse, I try to tease out the silver lining. So I was thinking about it the other day, what does grief have to teach me?

Here is what I have learned so far:

I’ll never be the same

I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but it’s true. I thought that grief was something you heal from, a period of time that you struggle through before you get back to normal. Grief changed me. Which isn't to say that I am some unrecognizable version of myself, but that when something so significant happens, the remnants of it stay with you. There is no going back to before, because before will always be a time when your loved one was there.

As a child, my own extended family all lived in different states, and we saw each other once a year if we were lucky. In college however, when my grandmother began to need full time assistance, I spent a little over a month of my summer break living with her, cooking, cleaning, driving her to doctors appointments, and staying up late watching TV. I did this for a couple of years until I graduated and my younger sister took over. She was my last living grandparent, the one I had gotten to know the best, and spent the most time with.

We are blessed to be living with my in-laws at the moment. It’s been wonderful to have my own children be able to have such a close relationship with their grandparents. One day, as I was watching my children talk and play with my husband’s mother (Noni, as she’s called in our house), I was struck by the relationship between grandparent and grandchild, and I realized that since my grandmother’s death, no one would ever love me quite like that again. It was an immediate feeling of both sadness and gratitude.

This conflicting emotional state seems to be one of the defining characteristics of grief. At least for me, when I am in the midst of it, I can never define my emotions as either negative or positive. Instead, it feels like being engulfed by a tornado of ambivalence, where swirling winds toss me in different directions, all grasping for my attention at once.

I have learned to let that tornado wash over me, and to not worry about defining it. That I have no control over when it will surface is another matter.

It Tenderizes

I cannot tell you how often I have started to cry while reading a book, watching a movie, or doing random, everyday tasks. While I am normally an emotional person, the morning news (which I have largely stopped watching) can send me into a fit of tears. Grief seems to magnify and personalize everything. I feel the pangs with a stronger force. Even fictional characters throw punches at my tender heart. I have been trying to read the book The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, for months and it’s not for lack of time or interest. When I read a beautifully heartbreaking passage, I am overcome by the tornado, and I have to put it down. It often takes days to feel that I have to built myself back up enough to continue. I’m still only a quarter of the way through.

This constant pounding on my heart, in the long run may serve to make it stronger, the way a guitarist builds up calluses on their fingers. At present though, there is raw skin and blisters.

In the wake of recent tragedies, of continued war and conflict, of so much strife and injustice, it would be easy to sink back into that dark pit. Today, and one day at a time, I am choosing to listen to the lessons grief has to teach me. Today I will choose to be more compassionate, generous, and grateful. Grateful even for the excruciating parts, because they help me empathize on a deeper level with my fellow human beings. It seems to me, that while grief is extremely personal, it may also be the emotion we can all unite around. No matter what your politics, race, nationality, religion, we all will experience loss at some point. We will all be shaken to our core. We will all be changed, hopefully for the better.

To my grandmother, who would have turned 99 this month, and to all of those loved and lost, your life and your death continue to shape mine.

I love you.

Lessons Rereading Books from my Childhood: Peter Pan

My eldest son was upset about going to bed one night, feeling like he was missing out on more time to play.

"The days go so much faster now" he said.

"Yes, that's what happens when you grow up" I responded.

"I never want to grow up!"

I found myself responding with this infamous opening line, "all children, except one, grow up." 

That's how we started reading Peter Pan.

I grew up on Peter Pan, the Disney version, the Mary Martin musical, and of course Hook (tear!). It's one of those stories that has been reprised over and over again with prequels, sequels, and remakes. Is anyone else really excited for the live broadcast version in December? Christopher Walken as Captain Hook?! Hello, must watch TV. 

But back to the book. As much as I was obsessed with Peter in almost any form, what I read as a child was most likely an adapted version, and if it wasn't, I was too young to appreciate what was really going on in the text apart from what I recognized from the movies. Let me also just point out here, that the original version of Peter Pan (or Peter and Wendy), was a play, and the book is a later novelization of that by the same author, J.M. Barrie. Actually, there are several early versions of the story, but specifically we read the 1911 novel based on the play.

Before we get too indepth, here are just a few bullet points that stood out to me upon first reading:  

1. The journey to Neverland is long, perilous, and scary
2. Captain Hook is also way scarier than his goofy animated portrayal
3. Tinkerbell is a curvy, sassy broad with a potty mouth, and even though she tries to kill Wendy, we still love her. It's not her fault really. Apparently, because fairies are so small, they only have room for one thought or emotion at a time. This accounts for her extreme swings from vindictiveness to kindness.
4. Tigerlily was a warrior. When I watched the Disney movie again with my son, I was so angry with the depiction of Tigerlily. She was not just the "Chief's daughter", she basically called the shots. We won't even get into the overt racism here with regards to the Picatinny tribe (the Natives of Neverland), but Tigerlily was definitely way more badass in the book, though admittedly still a little gaga over Peter-- but everything revolves around Peter, it's his world afterall. 

Now to the deep stuff: 

From the very beginning of the text, there is an ominous feeling, Peter sweeps in like a mysterious wind, a larger than life presence. The narrator basically tells us how "cunning" Peter is, by convincing them to come to Neverland, as if we are not to trust him. The flight to Neverland is harrowing. Michael falls and almost drowns several times. Also, bumping into clouds actually hurts. Peter steals food out of the mouths of birds, and the birds chase them, and this is how they eat-- it's all a big game. Peter is fearless, and his actions, though "games" to him, present real danger for the Darlings:

"'Save him, save him!' cried Wendy, looking with horror at the cruel sea far below. Eventually Peter would dive through the air, and catch Michael just before he could strike the sea, and it was lovely the way he did it; but he always waited till the last moment, and you felt it was his cleverness that interested him and not the saving of human life. Also he was fond of variety, and the sport that engrossed him one moment would suddenly cease to engage him, so there was always the possibility that the next time you fell he would let you go." 

We get the sense more than once that Wendy must be having second thoughts, but alas, they have already gone too far to turn back. So Peter is at once their protector and leader, but also alarmingly unreliable. Clearly, Wendy has an "I can fix him!" complex....but I digress...

Much has been said about the darker elements of Peter Pan. I'm a fan of the tv show "Once Upon a Time" who cast him as a pretty sinister villain in one of the seasons. It's not hard to see where these interpretations come from, especially if you know a bit about the author's strange and tragic life. This piece in The Guardian, is a good read for those that are interested in an overview of Barrie's life and a brief look at some of the historical and textual interpretations.

I hesitate though, to be too serious. Peter, I think, would rail against the jaded grown-ups ruining all his games through over analysis. Darkness doesn't have to mean evil, it is simply a natural counterpart to light. 

Childhood is not all fairy dust and mermaids. There are also monsters and ghosts and being afraid of the dark. There is sadness and fear and danger along with all of the joy and wonder, even (often) tragedy. Perhaps that's why Peter Pan is still one of the most recognizable and relatable heros in children's literature. He runs into danger and confronts the darkness, seeks it out even. There is real gore and blood-- no panning away from the camera-- but the graphic scenes are juxtaposed with wild innocence. At the end of the day, everything is a game, even death. 

Peter shows us the great contradiction of childhood-- charming and lovable, but also selfish, shortsighted, and reckless. The story shows us adventure and imagination alongside heartbreak and loneliness, the blow of the later softened by the element of fantasy.

Here is one of the passages that got me, in which we get a glimpse of the humanity of Peter, and not just the myth. Wendy tells the boys a story every night about their own mother so that they do not forget her. Peter hates the story. He groans one night at the telling, and thinking he is hurt Wendy asks if he is okay:

'It isn't that kind of pain,' Peter replied darkly.

'Then what kind is it?' 

'Wendy, you are wrong about mothers.' 

They all gathered round him in affright, so alarming was his agitation; and with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto concealed. 

'Long ago,' he said, 'I thought like you that my mother would always keep the window open for me; so I stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my bed.'

Indeed, there is a certain tragedy in this whole growing up business. It is a tragedy to grow up, and it is a tragedy not to. It is almost merciful that we do not have a choice in the matter, and so accept it simply as the way things are. Not like Peter, who we can't help but grieve for when we consider all the "what if's", especially as a mother. 

The scariest word: Alone

I wrote an article this week for one of my freelance gigs about loneliness. It's a tricky emotion. We all experience it at one time or another, and yet when we are in it, it makes us feel isolated, like no one else could possibly understand. 

Alone, might just be the thing we are most afraid of. 

One of my childrens' familiar complaints is, "Mama! I'm alone in here!" No matter where I go, they pick up their legos or building blocks and move to wherever I am, like little moons unable to escape my gravitational pull. They orbit around me. 

When we grow, we are pulled by other forces- friends, relationships, careers. Anything but the limitless expanse of dark space.

To be tethered to something is a comfort. Even Tom Hanks had Wilson. In the midst of aloneness, we have to invent a partner to interact with lest we be sucked up by that black hole of loneliness. 

Even the fear of death, at its heart, is really about being alone; being separated from those we love, being sent into an unknown void. Maybe there is an afterlife, but we still have to venture there alone, leaving those we love behind.

So loneliness- the crushing weight of it, the cold despair- might be the most primal, the most human, of all emotions. 

We are, as science confirms, social creatures. We depend on each other not just for amusement, friendship, or a functioning society, but as a rope pulling us from the quicksand. 

If it's loneliness we fear, then it's connectedness we desire. So that even when we are by ourselves, in an empty house with not even a television to distract us, we might grasp an invisible thread that leads to another being—  that he will soon be home from work; that she will hear your silent prayer; that love is the rope that can save us from the void.