It was a particularly long and arduous sprint during the sixth track of my spin class the other morning, I was pretty much hating my bike, my spin instructor (who is normally one of my best friends), and the fact that I had taken a week-long hiatus from my spin classes.
I was just about to give myself an excuse to slow down and let the music speed along ahead of my feet when I heard these three words: You're Not Tired !
And for just a moment, I believe it. The belief lasted just long enough to get me through the end of the sprint and possibly spared the life of my dear friend who might have otherwise met her bloody demise when I clocked her over the head with the business end of her own bike shoe (assuming I could muster the energy).
It wasn't true of course. I was tired. I've been tired for four stinking months. I was tired in the week I spent on hospital bed rest before my son was born, as I was pumped full of nasty drugs to keep me pregnant and make me woozy. I was tired during the three and half weeks following his birth when I was waking every two to three hours to chill with a hospital grade pump, pumping breast milk for a tiny infant, too small and fragile to join his family at home. I was tired during the 10 days he spent back in the hospital battling meningitis; when I hardly left his side and 'slept' on a glorified chair listening to his respirator whir and antibiotics beep. I was tired during the following two months as I stayed home with him and his brother (only 15 months older) fighting a nightly battle with an infant who refused to sleep alone. I continue to be tired as I have spent the last month with little more than three hours sleep at a time then pop out of bed to drag both boys to the sitter and run myself ragged to meet absurd productivity standards at work... Then lather, rinse, repeat with a smile in my face.
Well guess what team, this mom is reaching her breaking point. Sure, I can fool myself into finishing a 90 second sprint and even drag my sorry ass out to the park for a nice longish run every now and again. I can slap that smile on my face and remember the thrill I get from helping someone get their own mobility back.
But yes. I. Am. Tired. It may not always feel that way because who has the time fot it? Not a parent of two under two...that's for damn sure. Not me and certainly not my husband; who's band season is kicking ass particularly hard this year, as he has to work 60 + hour weeks and contends with all that crying in the middle of the night...(not all of it from is the kiddos either).
Marathon runners talk about 'hitting the wall' late in the race. I've been there, looking mile 16 square in the face and wondering how the hell I'll make it ten more G.D. miles and whose stupid idea was this in the first place ?
Well team, I think I just hit that wall. Go ahead and pepper me with obligatory words of encouragement. Tell me that I'll 'miss these midnight snuggles' when my guys are grown. Who knows? Maybe someday that will be the case. Maybe I will look back at this time some day in the future with nostalgic melancholy and wish I had appreciated that nauseating sleep-deprivation more. But I caution you to tread lightly, especially if I am near a bike shoe/makeshift weapon.
For now, I need to bust through this metaphorical wall and keep lying to myself so I can press on in this long run of life. Women and men have done it since the dawn of time.
I am not tired.
We are not tired.