The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mom.

I've known since I was very young that sleep deprivation is a part of motherhood - especially the early stages of it. I think it may be an instinctual thing that most women are born with. I can remember cooing in the ear of my baby doll as I comfortingly rubbed my hand up and down its back while pacing my pink and yellow, polyethylene kitchen.

Some women make the mistake of believing they are prepared for motherhood - I on the other hand, was prepared in the sense that I knew I was unprepared. I was expecting the worst, and therefore would be able to handle whatever circumstance I may find myself in. Right?

Because truly, it's our expectation of how a moment, a feeling, an experience, a day, should go that trips us up in the end. Just ask my friend Alexander.

A friend recently explained to me the three types of babies that may be born unto a mother: Dragon babies, Unicorn babies, and Potato babies. These personalities can also be mixed to make a unique blend. For example, one may find themselves with a deeply confused Unigon that swings from sweet and smiley, to fussy and temperamental for no obvious reason. I was fortunate enough to birth a Potacorn.

Judah just exists half the time. He poops, sleeps, and eats, in whatever position he may find himself in, with very little regard to the surrounding noises, smells, and lighting. So long as he gets food and a dry diaper from time to time, he really couldn't care less. When he decides to indulge his admiring parents or curious visitors with consciousness, he remains limp, content to serve as the source of entertainment, as he is passed around like a hot potato. The title of a potato baby, I think, is therefore deserved. In addition to his aloof attitude, however, he is extremely sweet and cuddly. He smiles and gurgles when he is awake with a full belly of milk and he's already learned to giggle. He is therefore, half Unicorn. The perfect blend/baby in my unbiased opinion.

Alexander anticipated - maybe not the best of circumstances for himself, but he didn't anticipate the worst as I did, and so ended up feeling cheated and attacked when he didn't get a treat in his cereal box, disliked his pack lunch, fell down and hurt himself on more than one occasion, and, among other things, was denied the brand new pair of shoes he wanted. His day was pretty terribly horrible, and since he was not accustomed to things going so sourly, it seemed unjust.

This was the mistake I was unwilling to make as a first time mom, so I braced myself for a train wreck and then ended up with the perfect nursling, a champion at bath time, the quietest road tripper, and the abstinent cryer; Judah Emmett Foreman, the golden child.

I guess you could say I was spoiled. But what will a kale salad, bowl of broccoli shreds, cup of yogurt, and 2 cups of coffee give you? A gassy, very upset baby. All of the above were eaten one day with out former knowledge on my part of the effect that they can have on my infant's tummy. The poor little guy was so uncomfortable, no position seemed to work to take the pressure off of his abdomen. I started my efforts to soothe him around 9pm, rubbing his belly in the clockwise direction with coconut oil and orange EO, pumping his legs as if he was bicycling, turning him on his belly with his rump in the air, and elongating his spine as much as I could. Nothing seemed to work. He would quiet down for moment when a stomach pain would pass, and then immediately let out a high pitched squeal as his tightened intestines struggled to pass another bubble. I felt awful at first, but by the time 3am hit, I perceived every cry and wail of pain as a malicious effort to keep me from getting a single wink of sleep. Selfish baby.

We danced in a circle of nursing, burping, and screaming. Each time I would pray that his closed eyelids would remain shut as I'd raise him gently from my chest to my shoulder to try and release any burps, and with out fail, the minute he spit up the air in his chest, he would return to a fit of screams, only to be appeased by more time on the breast. Finally I decided, no more! If he spits up all over himself that's his problem. I won't burp him any more if it means he keeps crying!

I finally soothed him back to sleep with more suckling and laid him down. He received no kisses on his forehead or affectionate farewell cheek rubs. I was done. And with a sigh of relief I myself laid down and effortlessly went to sleep. I don't know how much time passed - it may have been no more than a few minutes - but I woke up to the sound of Judah sputtering, struggling to breathe as he choked on his own spit up. I whirled out of bed and scooped him up in a panic, frantically trying to clear his air passages with my hand against his back. He coughed and choked until he finally was able to take a wheezy inhale, and then began to pitifully whimper.

I slumped onto the bed, holding my month old to my chest, and started to cry. One rough night and I had broken down to putting my own desire for sleep above my son's health and safety. It was disheartening how easy it was to be selfish with the person I love most in this world next to my husband. What an awful pattern to find yourself repeating: to continually be surprised at the amount of sin and self-centeredness there is in your heart.

My baby forgave me of course, and slept soundly shortly after the episode, but I went to bed wondering how it was possible that the human species hadn't died out already. Even when I feel as though I am being honest with myself, my estimations of how capable I am of truly loving someone else and putting their needs above my own are grossly inaccurate. It is because I believe I deserve and therefore expect the kind of food I like on the schedule I choose, all of my husband's attention, a functioning car with accessible gas, the right of way at the intersection, a fully charged phone, warm showers that last as long as I'd like with a stable temperature, kitchen space, my pillow, and 8 hours of sleep, that I am able to justify defending them, even apparently, unto death.

The reality of how tightly I hold onto my 'rights' of comfort was very stark in contrast to my love for my family that night. It seemed like an evil shadow hovering over the bed that I rocked my son on with my husband asleep next to us. How much damage would I allow those entitlements to inflict on my marriage and relationship to my children? I pondered what could be worth coming between me and my two boys, but I had just proven to myself that it took no more than a few hours of sleep deprivation to make me put my own wants and needs above theirs.

Alexander resolved to move to Australia to solve his problems. I, on the other hand, think it is too early to fly with this new born, so instead I have resolved to try my best and have fewer expectations for the way I think my life should go and, hopefully, through this endeavor, loosen my grip on the small things I feel so entitled to that can create such big gaps in my relationships.