The daughter of a friend of my mother in law called me today to ask a little advice about getting her baby boy to sleep better.  Now, I am not a doctor, but I had done copious amounts of research both before and during my own son’s sleep battles.  I have also been close witness  to several failed sleep strategies during my years as a nanny. On top of that, I am lucky enough to have a friend who is a therapist that specializes in infant/child sleep.

Even with all of this in my arsenal, I still could not be of much help because her son is only seven weeks old.  A newborn has very disorganized sleep and doesn’t start to distinguish between night and day sleep until about four or five months old. Until then, all you can do is tend to your babe at every cry, at all hours of the night.

This woman was deep in the throws of new mom exhaustion. Nursing almost constantly and not sleeping for more than a couple hours at a time is pretty standard for the mother of a newborn. I could tell she was hoping I had a magic wand to wave.  I did not.

We talked a little about how tired she was and how there were times when her baby would cry and she would cry too because she just felt so beaten. I knew exactly what she was talking about. I remember walking into the walls while holding my son because I was so exhausted I was almost in a trance. My son was colicky for the first three months. My husband and I spent hours on end pacing with him, rocking him, and bouncing him. We also did kangaroo care with him strapped to our chests for the first few months of his life.

She casually remarked, “I don’t know how people have more than one kid. God must find a way to erase the memories of the hard times.”

I thought to myself, she must be right.

Her phone call triggered a trip down memory lane for me.

I had a pretty traumatic birth and suffered from some PPD. I recall laying in the dark on the bed with my crying son in my arms just balling my eyes out because I wanted it all to stop. Anyone who has had a colicky baby knows how that baby’s cry hits a spot in your brain that no other sound in the world can trigger. And when your baby cries for hours on end, you truly do start to lose your sanity.

I remember thinking I would rather die than go through another day of exhaustion, and wailing, and feeling so helpless. I remember thinking that my husband and son would be much better off without me because I was obviously a terrible mother. I remember hitting my forehead on the wall over and over again on purpose because it kept me from squeezing my baby too tight.

As I think back on it now, it’s almost as if it all happened to a different person. I feel so removed from it. I wouldn’t even be thinking of it if I hadn’t received this particular phone call. Nowadays, when I remember my son’s infancy, I remember his little hand squeezing my finger. He used to do that alot. In the beginning he couldn’t do much of anything — couldn’t speak, hold his head up, couldn’t even focus his eyes. But he sure could squeeze my finger.  This memory does not feel like it happened to someone else. It still tugs at my heart.

I’m smiling right now.

Him squeezing my finger.

I haven’t forgotten the “tough times”, but I have forgotten the pain of it. It just isn’t there anymore.

My husband equates it to some sort of “pain envelope”.  That once you experience tremendous pain and actually get through it, it just isn’t painful anymore. You forget about it. That’s how boxers are able to keep getting back in the ring.

He must be right, because now we’re entertaining the idea of having another baby.

Ahhh, the beauty of  forgetting …

Or, maybe more importantly, the beauty of remembering.

Because God is pretty smart. He erases the pain of the bad times, but not the joy of the good times.

Cause it still gets me.

Him squeezing my finger.