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The problem with Dylan’s ongoing sleep issues—I mean, aside from the obvious problem of the whole thing being a giant festering pain in my ASS—is that he won’t stick to one irritating behavior long enough for me to deal with it. The only constant is the ass-painery, the details are an ever-moving target. He hates naps! He loves naps! He takes forever to get to sleep at night! He conks out immediately! He wakes up at 1 AM! No, 2 AM! No, 4! 5! He’s sick, so all bets are off! He’s fine, but now you have been programmed to eject yourself from the bed at top speed because maybe he cough-barfed and the only thing that’s worse than a crib cough-barf is a crib cough-barf that’s not immediately attended to, see also: CHILD SMEARING BARF IN HAIR.

Etc.

Every once in a while he sleeps perfectly, never making a peep all night long, and I stupidly assume we’ve finally turned a corner. Well! I think to myself, mentally dusting off my hands and congratulating myself for nearly two solid years of never once hitting my own child with a mallet in the dead of night. Thank goodness THAT’S over!

Naturally, the very next night he sets his internal alarm clock for 2:36 AM at which point he unleashes an unholy bloodcurdling scream that prompts me to sprint on adrenaline-fueled legs into his room, whereupon he stands up in his crib and chirps conversationally, “Horse?”

Last night after he woke up crying at 3 AM, said “Uh oh!” and pointed to his blanket which he had thrown on the floor, demanded milk, shouted “No!” when I actually got the milk, then threw a tantrum when I took him back to his room because MIIIILK, MIIIIIIIILK; I came to the decision that I Have Had Enough of This Sleep Bullshit and It’s Time to Take Action Once and For All. Which would be great—yay for actually doing something instead of just whining about it, right?—except this is a very familiar place, this land of Having Had Enough of This Sleep Bullshit. I’ve been here many, many times before, and I can’t seem to find my way to the much-preferred land of What’s This Unfamiliar Sensation Hey I Think This is What Being Well-Rested Feels Like.

I’ll tell you what I did last night, though: I put him back down, went back to my own bed, and stuffed the equivalent of a super-plus tampon in each ear. I’ve tried twenty different varieties of earplugs and all have provided only a small buffer against the deadly combination of Dylan’s penetrating howls, our wood floors, and the proximity of his bedroom to ours, but I think I’ve finally found a pair that lets me block him out. Each plug is a massive foam chunk which must be squished into a narrow shape before slowly morphing back to its gigandor size once it’s crammed in your listen-hole. They’re horribly uncomfortable and protrude from either side of my head like Shrek ears, but by god I slept the sleep of the just last night after I put them in.

That is, until 6 AM when my husband woke me by roughly poking my shoulder and telling me he couldn’t find his gym sneakers. Which was totally understandable, being as how they were hidden away in plain view on top of all the other shoes and it’s my job to help him find his ass with both hands and an ass map and an ASS GPS and all.

Four miles and counting. I don’t mean to go quite this far but the lake has flooded the trail: I round a bend and what!—there’s a sudden and startling expanse of murky water, two ducks paddling on its surface. I double back and go the long way around, along a chain link fence, jumping over exposed tree roots, zigzagging past puddles, then in front of a line of storefront windows where I peer surreptitiously to the left to see my reflection flashing by. Running girl, taking confident strides in skintight black Nike pants. I hardly recognize her.

I’m used to gasping, these long steady breaths are new to me. I’m used to stopping, not pushing through.

We were sitting in a darkened movie theater when someone came stumbling down the aisle and collapsed in a chair at the end of our row with a barely controlled crash. An instant later I could smell it: a wave so strong I almost expected to see a visible swirling in the air. I wondered how often I smelled like that, thinking I was being so secretive. You can hide it from some people, I guess. Others know it like a song they could sing in their sleep. It’s exhaled, it surrounds you, it seeps from your pores. I spent years thinking it made brighter, sharper, funnier moments, when all along it was a fog. It clung to me and I hid inside of it. It coated every inch of me inside and out.

Music is thudding in my ears and my feet are hitting the pavement over and over. My nose runs, my fingers are cold, my legs burn, my eyes prick back tears in the chilly air, the world moves past me as I move through it and I can feel it all.

My children’s voices are so loud. They barrage me with requests and complaints and kisses. I make snacks, wipe noses, run baths, put away toys, provide midnight comfort. Oh, it is a joy and it is a grind. I run my palm over their soft heads, I try and take deep breaths. I’m laid bare. There is no stopping. There is no cushion, no fog to hide inside.

I come to a hill and lean into it, telling myself to go harder. Up, up, up, my chest burning. I run into the feeling of wanting to quit and pass it by, leave it in the dirt behind me. I push through. I speed up, because I’m heading back home.

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