2,008 Sleepless Nights

He who keeps you will not slumber.
Behold, He who keeps Israel
Will neither slumber nor sleep.

Psalm 121:3-4

I heard a song recently with the lyrics "What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near" and I laughed. I thought "we must be close to that" and, being who I am, I pulled out my calculator. 

2,008 sleepless nights.

I lived through it and that number staggers me. I remember the nights when I was so tired my burning muscles refused to move. I remember the hours spent bouncing in the rocking chair. I remember screaming at a God who refused to let my baby, my toddler, my child sleep. 

2,008 sleepless night.

This story should have some inspirational ending, with some deep lesson learned, some comfort gleaned from those midnight hours, some greater faith or deeper knowledge. But it's not that kind of story. The only meaning I can wring from those nights (so many nights) is that we're still here, our bodies, our souls, our family intact. That alone is the grace of a good and faithful God.

Our first 4th of July with kids ended early. He was eight weeks old and I was still waiting for the promise of "babies eventually sleep through the night." That night he did - not a full eight hours or even six, but longer than the two hour stretches we'd had most nights. It felt like a turning point. Like maybe we could find sanity at the end of this dark tunnel of sleep deprivation. It wasn't the last time we had a flicker of hope, but it was the first. If I'd known it would be more than five years before I could count on him sleeping long enough for me to complete a sleep cycle, I would have fallen apart. 

But that's how you survive a crisis. You can't look around. You can't look back. You keep your eyes on what is right in front of you, head down, one foot in front of the other.

He was hungry. He was growing. He had reflux. It was a developmental growth spurt. It was too much sugar or too much excitement. His room was too bright, his bed too hard, his jammies too hot. 

I can't remember when we first discussed night terrors with our pediatrician. I know by age three we were labeling them that way. Not nightmares - everyone understands those. These weren't bad dreams. He had no memory of them in the morning. He wasn't afraid. But he wasn't lucid. 

Each night we'd read and pray and sing. For years we'd rock him to sleep. We'd tuck him in, brushing his sweet curls off his forehead to kiss him goodnight. And we'd hope and pray he'd sleep until morning. 

Most nights I'd wake to blood-curdling cries of "Mommy!" and run to his room, heart pounding, brain panicking. He'd thrash and groan and whimper. No soothing words or gentle touches could calm him. Eventually he'd drift back to sleep and I'd crawl back into my bed. Joe would take over at some point. Off and on for hours, he'd cry and we'd crawl. Heads leaning against the side of the crib or the edge of a pillow. Sometimes yelling back in frustration, desperation and anger. Sometimes crying in pain and sorrow.

I know why sleep deprivation is a form of torture. I know it's impossible to see or think or feel clearly. I know the all encompassing fear and despair. 

And yet we kept on, year after year. Not every night. But most. More nights than not. We tried different strategies - waking him fully before they started, earlier bedtimes, consistent routines. He grew and learned well. He was happy and healthy and terrifyingly smart. He just didn't sleep.

For 2,008 nights, give or take.

His first year of school, we went home for the holidays and when we came back, the bad nights had stretched farther apart. Not gone, but with more space. The bad nights dropped in intensity. The good nights grew longer. By age six, we expected to sleep through the night instead of forcing ourselves out and bed and across the house to keep him from falling out of bed or smashing his head into something.

He's nearly nine now. We had a bad night this week. I'd gone to bed early while Joe worked a swing shift. I'd almost dozed off when the familiar, heart-piercing whimper cut through the night. I rolled out of bed and into his room. 

"Mommy!"

"Yes, Buddy?"

He whimpered again and resettled. 

"Mommy!"

"I'm right here, Buddy. Do you need me to stay?"

He thrashed and mumbled something incoherent.

I settled into the rocking chair. These nights have become so rare. I watched him settled into a deeper sleep again, his body and brain relaxing. His big beautiful brain that still hasn't entirely learned how to shut down. His strong, active body that aches with all the bumps and bruised and growing pains of a third grade boy. 

At last I went back to my own bed, waiting for the adrenaline fade and my own brain and body to relax. My nervous system is already so overcharged, so oversensitive. Years of conditioning haven't helped. But I'm still here. We're still here. We survived. I don't know how. I don't know why. But we're here.

God grants sleep to the ones He loves, or so the Solomon says in Psalm 127. But He loves those who don't sleep too. I wish someone had told me that. That someone had reminded me that He never slumbers or sleeps either. I still want there to be a greater purpose to that pain. I still want there to be a compelling answer to why. Here, on the other side, I know He was with us all along. We were never alone. Even in the darkest nights, even in the most desperate hour. And you're not alone either.

And yes, babies do eventually sleep through the night. Sometimes it just takes 2,008 nights to get there.