We { I mean "I" } Survived...

...a whole night without Em in our room.  She slept a full (interrupted) night in her very own nursery.  *don't panic* *deep breaths*

Here's the down low -- I quite literally had a anxiety attack.  There was no shaking, hyperventilating, or anything physically evident of this attack, but it was there and very real.  I crawled into bed after hovering just outside Em's nursery for what seemed like an eternity and let my mind wander to places it should never have gone.   I'm not sure what I was waiting for outside her nursery.  Her eyes to open?  Her small whimper?  Or dare I admit, her to stop breathing?  I hate that thought.  I hate that I think that thought.  But I do.  No, I'm not sure what I was waiting for.  All I knew was that I could not leave her.

I rolled towards Ryan.  Exhaustion had set in from my two day on going battle with Em's ear infection/congestion.  Poor thing can't breathe through her nose, wakes up trying to catch her breath, then realizes her ear hurts.  Breaks my heart to see her struggle so much with little that I can do.  Once Ryan and I were face each other, both our eyes mostly closed, I whispered into the dark, "Do you think my anxiety is abnormal?"  I wasn't looking for reassurance, really.  I was quite literally looking for his honesty.  I've never been one to turn to medications, or therapy really, but this anxiety was gripping me tight.  I don't want to ever overlook the seriousness of it.  Do I think I can mange it and overcome it?  I hope so!  I guess in a way I was putting Ryan on notice.  I was letting him know (without spelling it out) that I was anxious, fearful, a nervous-freakin-wreck, and I wanted him to be aware of it.

I spent the first few minutes in bed fiddling with the monitor.  I was afraid I wouldn't be able to hear her so I adjusted the volume probably 50 times.  I'm using my iphone and docking station with an app as a white noise machine.  It plays the ocean waves.  This sound is soothing to me so I had high hopes it would be for Em too.  As I adjusted the volume on the monitor I would hold it close, then far, listening for the crash of those waves.  I knew that if I could hear those (the iphone is placed farther away from the monitor than Em is) then I would hear even the slightest movement from her.  It didn't take long for the exhaustion to overtake me mind, body, and soul.  Quite honestly, the exhaustion might have been the only thing that could overcome my anxiety!

My fears were eased around 1:40am when I heard the faintest of whimpers come across that monitor.  I could tell it she wasn't awake yet, but that's how it starts.  I let her whimper a few more times, willing myself to stay put until she really stirred (trust me, that's harder than it seems).  It didn't take long.  As I crept into her room by only the soft glow coming from her owl nightlight, I saw the start to her fluttering eyelids.  I spent the next hour changing her, giving her meds, feeding her, and rocking her back to sleep.  That's when the Great Debate started in my head.  To leave her or not to leave her...again.  I knew I had to place her back in her Rock-n-Play.  I had to be brave, for both of us.  So I did, again standing just outside the door, peering through the crack, listening intently.  She was asleep.  Content and asleep.  I crawled back into bed for the second time.  I secretly hoped she would cry so that I could go to her and have an excuse to cuddle up to her in bed.  She didn't.  Thank God for that exhaustion again.  The next time I woke up it was 6:15.  She had slept another 3.5 hours.  This time I reasoned that this would be about the time I would normally be getting up to start getting ready for work.  Instead of nursing her back to sleep in the rocker, I crawled into the guest bed with her.  She was fidgety anyhow, but I loved snuggling up to her.  I still count this as a "whole night" though, seeing that anytime after 6:00 AM is deemed a time for waking up to start the day!

There's one part I'm leaving out.  As I crawled into bed the first time (and the 2nd!), I felt so empty.  There was this huge empty space now next to my bed, and even more devastating, an emptiness in my arms and next to my chest.  I missed her soft warm body next to mine.  I missed her whimpers and coos in her sleep.  And yes, I even missed her loud grunting that keeps me awake half the night.  As the anxiety threatened to take me over, I rolled over to find one of her thick, soft baby blankets.  It was probably used in her Rock-n-Play over the last few days and at some point after a nap was placed on the bed and replaced by another blanket.  In my moments of weakness, trying to wrestle the fear back into the corners of my heart, I balled the blanket up and curled it close to my body.  I literally slept with her blanket as if it were a teddy bear.  This thought brings tears to my eyes even now.  It's supposed to be the other way around.  Em should have a teddy bear, lovey, or blankie that she curls up with for comfort.  I am the mom.  I should be brave, secure, comforted by just the bed, my pillow, and my husband.  I wish I could look Emma in the eyes and tell her I'm not afraid.  I wish I could look her in the eyes and tell her I am brave, courageous, and strong.  I can't.  And I won't lie to my child.  She is too young to understand or remember.  Hopefully by the time she is starting to understand I will be able to mask the fear, face the fear, and embrace the fear.  I don't want my child to see a mother who lives in fear.  I don't want my daughter to be consumed with fear and worries.  I want her to feel free, comfortable, secure.

Maybe sleeping with her blanket is irrational.  Maybe sleeping with her blanket makes me weak.  But sleeping with her blanket keeps me sane.  Sleeping with her blanket brings me comfort.  Sleeping with her blanket it was helped us - I mean "I" - survive the first full night of many with her in her own room.  I want my daughter to feel secure, but independent.  This is a growing experience for us both....Somehow, I think it's harder on me than it is on her.