Measuring My Life in Minutes

Day 2 of sleep training the Tiny Overlord. We're using The Sleep Easy Solution. It's possibly the worst misnomer I've ever had the displeasure to encounter. Oh, there's sleep; the easy part is somewhere in the future, I'm assuming. And I hope the adage about "assuming" isn't true in this case.

Previous to this training, we identified 3 levels of crying:
1. Slight whine, no tears. "Mommy, I'm displeased with you."
2. Crying, with slightly tearing eyes. "Okay, Mommy, why aren't you doing something about my displeasure?"
3. Intense crying, with large tears rolling down cheeks, accompanied by gasping breaths. "Mommy, WHY AREN'T YOU DOING SOMETHING TO COMFORT ME?!?!?!"

Well, since we've started sleep training, we've blazed new crying territory: the dreaded, the abhorrent LEVEL 4!!!! (Cue ominous music) There are no words I can provide that would express what she may be saying with this cry.

4. Racking sobs, face red with uncirculated blood, with spells of silent screaming--as in: her mouth is open, but no sound is coming out.

And I used to think Stage 3 was unbearable.

To mothers who are reading this, you know the kind of physical pain that I experienced last night. It's a kind of pain that's hard to describe; I used to THINK I understood what mothers were talking about when they said they couldn't bear to hear their child cry. I was wrong. Yet another thing I understand better now. To have your child cry, especially level 3 or 4 crying, is to have a visceral, overwhelming wave of physical pain overcome your body.

Last night, I checked on her after 10 minutes as the book prescribed, and was confronted with the most difficult and disturbing image I've ever had to face. I've endured a miscarriage, with all the bloody pain and crushed hope that entails. I've endured a 26 hour labor, 18 hours of which were unmedicated, and almost all of it was done flat on my back, the most painful position in which to give birth. And I had a baby pushed back up inside me after a failed attempt at a vaginal delivery, in order to position her for an unscheduled C-section.

I've faced and overcome bodily pain, and am still recovering from emotional pain and feelings of personal, womanly failure.

But this: the sight of my baby, who has so far been dependent on me to provide comfort, writhing in her crib, turning her face in the dark toward the scent and presence of her Protector and Nurturer. Seeing her tortured face illuminated by the glow of the hall light, hearing her choked sobs of despair, and not permitted to touch her or comfort her: this image, these sounds, and this powerlessness were my undoing. I saw her in pain, heard her cries, and yet knew that I had to let her figure out how to soothe herself. She's growing up, and I have to let her.

THAT'S the most arduous experience I've ever had to endure.

I spent the remaining time of last night's training session, all 10 minutes or 10 eternities, hunched over in throbbing, raw anguish, struggling to walk to my bed, where I finally curled up and repeated over and over to myself: "She'll be okay, she'll be okay, she'll be okay. . . "