t’s Sunday afternoon. I just lay down my sleeping daughter on the couch, after singing Frozen’s North Wind 10 times to lull to her sleep. I’m sandwiched between my child and my snoring husband. The dishwasher is spinning noisily in the kitchen. From my window, I can see a faint orange glow from the setting sun. The Christmas tree emits a delicious smell. It’s freezing cold but I’m wrapped in woolen socks, two layers of clothes and a thick blanket. In about an hour I’m going out for my second run this weekend before cooking dinner.

ig life update! The kid is starting to use the potty and can go a day without a diaper. What a saving relief! Occasionally she would also use the toilet at the nursery and loves putting on her pink underwear. With an on-going sleep regression, these are little signs telling me that better days are coming.

It is midnight.

The monitor lit up, the crying starts, which turns to screaming really fast. The husband (on night duty) gets up while I turn around to try to continue my sleep. I’ve been sleeping really bad lately due tummy aches (I blame it on the brown rice and rye bread I ate after a 12-km run) so catching a bit more snooze is a matter of life and death.

Fast forward to 20 minutes later, the baby is still screaming and the husband sounds like he is about to reprimand her for this behaviour. After all, it’s bad manners to wake your parents up in the middle of the night just when they’ve entered the deep sleep zone. So I get up of bed, put my kimono on and zombie walk to the bedroom next door. The baby probably smells me so she crawls to me right away, hugs my neck and sobs on my chest. And stops crying.

“Dat meen je niet (You’ve got to be kidding)!” exclaims the husband. The kid usually settles down when the husband pacifies her. But not this time. She is inconsolable. Which is odd, because she’d been sleeping through the night for the last three months (except when we are with the in-laws, in a nice hotel or during the day). Or at least until 5am, when she would cry for the breasts.

Tonight is just a nightmare. Was it the sweet potatoes and pineapple chicken I gave her for dinner? Or that she was 30-minutes behind her bed time? Stomach cramp? Why is she suddenly screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night? Nightmares?

It is not easy.

In this picture I’m lulling a baby to sleep with one arm while a pump is attached to my breast to catch let down milk. Bottles of milk, lampin (cloth diaper) and baby wipes are occupying as much space on my table as unfinished inventories, requisitions and notepads. This is the nth time that my baby tries to sleep in my arms today. She couldn’t find her position and couldn’t sleep long so she keeps on crying. The telephone keeps on ringing, so does the doorbell the doorbell. The sound of my keyboard wakes her up. The voices of my co-workers, the printer, my coughing, the scooters outside. I pick her up whenever she cries, dance with her, feed her, cradle her, everything just so she’ll stop crying and won’t annoy my colleagues or God forbids that the person on the other side of telephone asks why a baby is crying in the background. And when she doesn’t stop, well, there’s always the breasts.

I don’t know what my colleagues think of it. I don’t even dare ask. Although I have an agreement with my boss, I know I am not delivering as much as I used to. In moments like this, I am very grateful to work for a company that allows me to work and be with my child at the same time. And to have colleagues who are very understanding. I won’t exchange this for a bigger paycheck or a higher position.