Let me make this very clear: I love my kids. Equally. Each of them are perfect in their individuality and uniqueness (although not surprisingly, they share many quirks). They make my life complete and fill my heart with a joy I’ve never experienced before.

And sometimes I want to get in my car and drive far, far away.

See, parenthood isn’t for the weak. All parents are superheroes that possess a basket of superpowers they use as necessary. In addition to all the wonderful aspects of raising kids, parenthood means lots of sleepless nights, lots of arguments, lots of dealing with bad attitudes, lots of complaining and whining, lots of caring for sick children when you’re sick yourself…I could go on.

Roman was a great newborn. While Logan was a difficult newborn, Roman was the definition of “easy baby.” He was sweet. He loved cuddling. He took long, effortless naps. He slept in his bassinet, in his pack-n-play, in the car, and in his crib. He never seemed to mind getting passed from person to person at family gatherings (and in my big extended family, there are plenty). He genuinely enjoyed being around people as much as people enjoyed giving him affection and attention. He slept through the night at only a few months old. He caught on to breastfeeding like a champion. He gained weight steadily, and never got sick. He didn’t mind running errands, sitting through church, or being my little sidekick throughout the day. He could entertain himself while I worked through chores.

Roman was an easy newborn. He is not an easy baby.

We’ve definitely shifted from thriving to surviving.

Once Roman hit the 4 month sleep regression, his whole personality and temperament morphed into something completely different. He suddenly stopped sleeping through the night, which is common for the regression, except that he never recovered.

If it wasn’t the regression, it was a growth spurt. If it wasn’t a growth spurt, it was a stomachache. If it wasn’t a stomachache, it was teething. Basically, he stopped sleeping.

My little angel who gave me 7-8 hour stretches of sleep at only a few months old reverted back to sleeping 3-4 hour stretches (and many times, only 2) every single night, only sleeping through the night once a week if I was lucky.

No amount of Advil, Tylenol, homeopathic teething remedies, blackout curtains, singing, and sound machines could get him to sleep. He never recovered from the 4 month regression, and we’re already at the 9 month regression.

He suddenly doesn’t like playing alone. He’s mobile and getting into all things he’s not supposed to. I feel lucky every time I take a shower in peace. I treasure the afternoons where his whining doesn’t ring in my ears for hours and hours. I count my blessings every time he takes even a 10 minute nap in his crib so I can do things like go to the bathroom alone, and reheat my cup of coffee for the thirtieth time.

Nobody can really prepare you for the way sleeplessness begins to weigh on your soul until you become a mom. Dads will never experience this phenomenon, ever. Even when our babies do sleep peacefully, moms will lay awake for hours worrying about any random thing that could go wrong. There’s the fear of SIDs, the fear of illness, and the fear that maybe, just maybe, we’re not a “good mom.” We set the most impossible standards for ourselves.

Sleeplessness makes anything just plain hard. I was enrolled in a class this semester. I dropped it on the first day. I scheduled a job interview and then cancelled it two days later. I can hardly pull myself out of bed in the morning, and I can’t imagine doing school or work on top of just living life. There’s nothing left to give.

Let me tell you, if you’ve ever been where I am, make sure you do one thing. One thing will hold your head above the water and allow you to pull yourself together for another day.

Ask for help.

And I don’t care if you’re a single parent or have the worst spouse in the world. Ask for help. If you don’t have a helpful partner, ask a friend. Ask your mom. Ask your sibling. Ask someone at your church.

These days, my husband has to stick the baby in the car and drive around for hours just to get him to sleep and allow me a few hours of peace. And I feel bad, really bad. The guilt eats at me. I’m his mother, and I should be able to handle him on my own. I should be able to rock him to sleep and get him on a sleep schedule. I should sleep train and cancel plans and so on.

And then the other part of me doesn’t feel bad at all. I literally cannot survive like this. I need a break, and I need to cherish it when I get one.

I adore my baby, but he’s not an easy one. I envy the parents who get 8 hours of unbroken sleep each night. It’s not easy, he’s not easy, but I love him with everything that’s in me.

And I know these days are fleeting. Someday I will miss them terribly.