Content warning: brief mention of suicidal ideation.
Dear Reese,
It’s 3 am and you’re crying. When I go into your room I don’t hesitate to pick you up. These are not the cries of restlessness but of distress. Does your mouth hurt, little one?
Or did you have a bad dream like I will in the early hours of sleep? One minute you’re in my arms and the next you’re not . . . you must have fallen out the car door while we were moving on the highway and I say out loud to my family over and over “I’ll kill myself” as we turn the car around to look for you. It’s just a dream. While I’m on the edge of waking up, I hear your cries. We must have found you. You must be okay. In the dream, we are fleeing the country with the family while we still can. The whole thing is awful.
When I pick you up at 3 am, you throw your arms around my shoulders and burrow into me. I rock you for a minute and then take you to the kitchen to find a bottle. The brief light of the fridge makes your eyes squint and then we’re back in the dark. You eat a little, taking breaks to lean back into my body. I hold you for a while, until I hope you’re tired enough to go back to sleep on your own. It takes a minute, I rub your back, leaning down in the crib to reach you— that lowered mattress may be safer for you but it puts me so far away. You sleep and I try to. And when I do, I dream.
In the morning, I give you Tylenol and me Diet Coke and we start the day.
Love,
Mama