A Long, Restless Night
Sleep doesn’t always come easily.
Not because I’m not tired, usually I am. But there are nights where a restlessness settles into the room and keeps changing shape.
My daughter can’t find a position that lets her settle.
She tries my arm first. It works for a while, until something unsettles her.
Then she gets on my chest. I guess the heartbeat helps. Until it doesn’t.
Then she falls onto the other arm. It’s softer, maybe better.
At least, that’s what I think she’s looking for.
And she keeps repeating this.
Each position almost works. Almost long enough for her to let go.
She moves through them with quiet determination, as if sleep is just one adjustment away.
Eventually, she falls asleep, almost like she’s passed out.
I feel relief more than anything else, relief that the movement has finally stopped.
Watching her, I recognize something.
The feeling of resisting sleep without really knowing why.
Wanting to stay just a little longer in whatever state comes before it.
At the time, it felt harmless. I’m not sure I knew what I was asking for.
Now I can go to my own bed, and sleep takes me quickly.
But it doesn’t last.
Some time later, she comes running again. Maybe it’s from a nightmare, or maybe she’s just awake enough to want company. I let her in beside me.
And then the restlessness returns.
She shifts again. My arm. My chest. My pillow. Back to my arm. Then the other one. Nothing works for more than a few seconds. I try to stay patient. I try to help her calm down while staying close enough to sleep that I might still fall back into it.
But it isn’t working.
After some time, my patience gives way to irritation. Not slowly, but abruptly.
I pick her up and carry her back to her bed, pull the covers over her, and tell her to sleep, more sternly than I would have liked. I don’t wait to see how it lands. I just leave.
This is not my proudest parenting moment. It is, however, a very tired one.
Back in bed, I check the time. Not much time left until I have to wake up. So I set an alarm, and then I fall asleep again.
But I sleep past the alarm.
My wife wakes me up. I thank her and get up, and go to wake our daughter. It’s time for her to get up too.
Kindergarten doesn’t care how the night went. It opens on schedule.
This isn’t the first night like this, and won’t be the last. Morning will come anyway.
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This captured that specific brand of middle-of-the-night exhaustion so perfectly. There’s something so lonely yet universal about those hours when the rest of the world is quiet but your mind won't shut off. Thanks for sharing this.