I’ve been waiting, see. I got this horrible cut from a “master” stylist at a salon here just before baby A came into the world. I had had a pixie cut from last year that was growing out, and a Chicago stylist had done a great job cutting just enough to make my hair look great again but allow the top to grow. Well, Mr. MasterStylist listened to my wishes and proceeded to “texture” my hair on top and give it options for sticking straight out in back. Um, yeah. Wow. That is almost exactly the opposite of what I would have chosen, buddy. I guess “master” means “worked for this company for more than a year,” and is not used in the same way as in terms like “mastery learning,” “master’s degree,” or pretty much any other terms that indicate knowing what the hell you are doing.
Anyway, as the last 4 months have gone by, sleepless and clouded, and I wash my hair maybe every 3 days and have forgotten which end of a dryer to point at it, it has gotten longer. I’ve gone from still cursing under my breath at Mr.MasterStylist to just looking for a hair clip to pull back the bangs. Stylish? No. Cute? Nope. Matching my 3 rotating tops and pants that I’ve worn for the last three months. Definitely. It looks particularly well suited to my furry blue robe and mismatched pajamas.
And I’ve been waiting. For that day. The day we walked out of a doctor’s office, pharmacy, or hospital with Baby A (hmm….there’s a pattern), or she woke up on month 3 and suddenly things were better. That she had slept for more than 3 hours, 2 hours, 1 hour, and then 45 min, 30 min, 30 min all night. Or that she no longer woke herself up every 20 minutes during those longer stretches or her naps. Someone would confirm my theory about allergies, and I would cut out nuts and bananas from my diet. After all, the kid wakes up around bananas, who needs them? Or the reflux medication would kick in and we would all wake up after 4 hours of sleep one night. Or something. Anything.
She would still be her alert, curious, overstimulated, sensitive self. We would still need to include these traits in our life and not just stop taking her needs into account. But we would get to go out with friends and their babies. I might finally move my bed time to 9pm and still get a good night’s sleep. By which I’m talking more than one stretch of 4 hours. She might start to like the stroller. Things would get…lighter. My heart included. There would be room to breathe in our lives and the breaths could be deep again.
And I would go down to that salon near the bookstore downtown and get my hair cut. It would be short still, but something cute that I would have a few minutes to style on the mornings I wanted to. When we went out. Because, as I said, we’d start going out again. Outside. I might pull some other clothes out of the closet even. Goodness.
But here we are at the Children’s Hospital for 3 days, and they’ve monitored her waking, sleeping and eating. I’ve slept in a spare bed in a day clinic, and breastfed her. I’ve walked the halls with her and played on the floor with her. She has sat on my lap with her intent little gaze while I spoke with the doctors for an hour. Ok, she had a few things to say, too. The nurses have looked for, and not found, any signs of reflux. They are usually the ones to convince the doctors. Allergies, also no signs. The wheezing that has been a constant companion of hers since we can remember has been diagnosed as harmless, non-painful, baby-reflux. She is learning to fall asleep a bit faster (and less often during the day) and in a crib. She is charming the pants off of everyone, as usual, and generally enjoying her stay (except for that force feeding incident with the nurse which will not be tolerated – by her or me – again).
And in long conversations with the doctors, I’m letting go. I’m giving up. It isn’t going to get better. She may just be a child that needs 9 hours of sleep a day. And the best we may be able to do is to hire good, qualified helpers so that we can get back out there once in a while, and work on helping her sleep faster, and eat more less often. That’s it.
Last night I grabbed my things from that spare room, went down to the nurses’ station and told them I was going to the parents’ dorm a few blocks away to sleep. It was time to get some rest while I knew she was in good hands, instead of staying close to breastfeed and get woken by snoring roommates. There was no more I could do, no more videos of wheezing to show the doctors, no more theories of allergies to run by anyone. Nothing. Done. All we had was one glorious night 5 days ago when we tried her on only formula, when she slept soundly between wake-ups. And even that effect started wearing away after 24 hours. And although the doctors really did listen to all our data and that incident, there was nothing they were aware of that could explain that as any more than a fluke.
I still think it is something, but I’m so tired. Tired of charging windmills. I need to sleep now, so I can be the best mom possible to my little firecracker. To help her learn to navigate the world exactly as she is. To deal with the people who won’t be so happy about what a strong willed kid she is. Sure I’m sad. It feels like I couldn’t be her knight in shining armor, after all. But I know I am still her advocate, and I guess, for a few days, I was even her mama bear.
So, no miracles. I guess it is time to get my hair cut, and accept this different, less shiny solution.
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