I think there was a horrible mistake at the hospital, and I was accidentally sent home with the Energizer Bunny, instead of my daughter (I knew I should’ve had a home birth).

We are on approximately day ten of this cold, and M is still going strong with the not sleeping thing. Last night and today were slightly improved, but I honestly don’t know how the kid is still alive. She staggers around, her eyes shining brightly with a slightly hysterical look. Surprisingly enough, she’s fairly good-natured – during the day, at least.

When she was teething a few weeks ago, she displayed the same astonishing ability to survive on no sleep (I don’t know where she gets this, because it sure as fuck isn’t from me). But in the few days of calm before catching this cold, she slept like a madwoman, one day taking three naps – that totaled five hours. So I know it will end eventually, and each day I chant to myself, “Today will be the day”. You know. Positive affirmations.

Her staying power is seriously impressive, though, and I started thinking maybe I should investigate the source of her boundless energy. After all, the world is fast approaching an energy crisis, and it would be nice if I could help out in some way. I’m thinking it’s the snot itself, so if I could just keep M sick all the time figure out how to grow the shit in a test tube, we could all be driving around in MagicSnot-filled cars, and I could single-handedly end our dependence on foreign oil. I’ll get right on it.

In the meantime, it was suggested that perhaps my overwhelming anger might have a wee bit to do with my upbringing. I grew up in an authoritarian state, with my mother as dictator. The older I got, the more I chafed under her insanity-fueled iron fist. As a teen I spent countless hours locked in my room raging into a pillow, because there was simply no other outlet. Exhausted after screaming helplessly into polyester stuffing, I would lie in bed and fantasize about my escape. Physical distance and financial independence were the goal, and once achieved, I never looked back (although it turns out 30 minute’s driving time isn’t as much physical distance as I’d like).

In hindsight, I feel grateful that I didn’t turn to some of the more common behaviors (anorexia, bulimia, cutting) that young girls frequently use to re-establish some sense of control in their lives. Instead I became a perfectionist with a few obsessive-compulsive tendencies (I was a relentless step-counter as a child), and while this was less than desirable baggage to drag into my adult life, there are worse paths to take.

Fast forward some fifteen-odd years and countless hours of therapy, and behold – the new me as mother. Given the issues my family saddled me with, I think I’ve done a pretty fine job as a parent. Not perfect by any stretch, but after years of work on myself and an intense self-education campaign, I believe I’ve managed to halt the better part of the generational avalanche of shit.

Which is why my uncontrollable rage was so troubling. Had I worked so hard, only to lose it whenever I didn’t get enough sleep? Was that when all the psychobabble fell by the wayside, and the true me was revealed? What good was all the work I’d done if I couldn’t hold it together during times of stress – when it matters most?

And then the suggestion came. As the mother of a young child, so much of my life is spent feeling out of control … I don’t decide when I sleep, and simple things like eating, running errands or participating in activities are so not simple anymore. I’m back in that authoritarian state, this time with my daughter as dictator. Except in this case it’s normal instead of pathological … and it’s temporary. But perhaps the way I feel when I’m exhausted, when M is exhausted, and yet she won’t sleep, evokes those dormant feelings of powerlessness (and rage) experienced so frequently at the hands of my mother. Click, ah-ha, yes, it all makes sense now. But what to do? Is there a way to recapture some sense of control? To redirect my fishtailing sports car as it careens towards the edge of the cliff? Well, that part is still a work in progress, but so far has involved lessening my obsession with M’s sleep habits and giving myself permission to take time for myself … even if it’s for fifteen minutes while she bitches in her crib. Small measures, yes, but somewhat effective so far.

I was lying in bed yesterday morning, having spent the previous three hours up and down with M, trying desperately to get her back to sleep, when I felt the rage creeping in. I reached for my newfound coping mechanisms, and then had a thought that stopped me in my tracks. That rage? That anger? That shameful desire to inflict bodily harm? Those feelings are directed at my mother. The shitstorm into which M has unwittingly stumbled has absolutely nothing to do with her. It’s all between me and mom. And like that, my fury dissipated into thin air, like shreds of fog burned off by the brilliant sun of understanding.

Am I still angry that I’m not getting any sleep? Yup. Frustrated and resentful? Yup, and yup. Do I still struggle with an overwhelming desire to take it out on my kid? Nope.

And that’s one more cubic yard of the shit avalanche that I’ve managed to hold back.