It's difficult

I find it difficult when you break my sleep, every night, and have done so for the last three years, to function in a calm and, well, functioning manner each morning.

Day, really.

I find it even more difficult to determine what it is, exactly, you want when you scream at me “Nilk, want nilk” and flap your arms, but reject every possible receptacle I place said milk into. Including the kitchen sink.

I find this mode of communication difficult to understand, the words you use – or don’t – difficult to interpret. Mostly, I have no idea what the fuck you actually want.

I find it difficult to summon up even the smallest shred of empathy, when you wander off, screaming louder, eyes closed, and walk into to the door frame / stairs / bed.

I find it difficult to read to you, when you scream at me and push me away, despite the fact you demanded I lie there next to you and “read dat book!”

I find it extremely difficult to comfort you with a cuddle when you push and hit.

I find it difficult to “help Thomas” (of the tank engine variety) “up the hill” when it appears he is stuck because he has my left nipple mashed

4 Replies to “It's difficult”

  1. The Nazis used sleep deprivation as a form of torture. So you have had three years of torture, not to mention your poor nipples.
    Three is a hard age. They are toddlers aware of their power.

  2. Oh how I feel your pain. I fear you need more than a book to help you my love (and it is honestly on its way now … sorry for delay. Mostly caused by demanding children).

  3. Sounds like something I could of written when my son was 2 years old. He is 4 now and thank god tantrums and waking at night are a thing of the past! I just found your blog and will be a frequent visitor.

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