In the middle of the afternoon I might catch one of the kids looking at me with a curious glint in their eye and I have to wonder, have they found me out? Do they know what a horrid mother I really am? Can they see through my daytime Mommy costume and remember the sleep crazed monster that lumbers around the house in the middle of the night, roughly “tucking in” and impatiently “listening” to the absurd bad dream about French toast that woke them up.
I am not good in the middle of the night.
Everyone has a little glitch, something they can’t do well, like poaching eggs or drawing stick figures. I know this and I could handle my lack of control for eight hours while I recharge, if it didn’t affect my family. My glitch hovers over my children in the middle of the night, this dark ominous cloud of tired grouchiness attempting to sooth and comfort. How are they not terrified by this? How does Josh manage to fall back to sleep after my moody toss of the covers, grunts of impatience and the blackness of my soul seeping out onto the sheets?
For nine and a half years I have attempted to contain my inner nightmare, only sharing my treacherous deeds with my poor family. For a little while I secreted away this little hope that I would get better, find the time to listen attentively and gently coddle my poor babies in their time of need. Unfortunately, the dreadful fact remains that I am a real life Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I guess it’s time to accept the fact that I would cut off my arm for my child, but I cannot contain the "momster" lurking about in the middle of the night.
