I will never forget my first week home with my firstborn.  She never slept more than 3 hours. Ever.  The usual for Sofia was 2 hours awake, 2 hours asleep, until the day I thought she died.  That’s right, with all of the new mom stress and worry, magnified by my exhaustion and overachiever tendencies to be the perfect mom, I thought I killed her in less time than it took me to kill a houseplant.

She was sleeping so soundly that I couldn’t wake her up.  Her breath was shallow, her body didn’t react to my touch, and this had gone on for more than her maximum of 3 hours.  I called my husband in a panic to get home because I had somehow killed our child in the first week.

We used cold rags on her feet, I tried to nurse her, we talked to her, turned on music.  I thought she was in a coma.  We rushed to the pediatrician and, as soon as the doctor came in, Sofia opened her eyes and smiled at me.  That’s right, I had all but blasted Beastie Boys but the sound of the pediatrician coming in woke up my newly rested, happy child. I then proceeded to have an emotional breakdown. The pediatrician recommended take out food and paper plates, to let my house be messy, and sleeping pills to get at least one night of sleep a week.

I am pretty sure I haven’t slept a solid 8 hours in almost a decade, but I have managed to keep all 3 of my girls alive. That’s right, all girls. Not the sweet, mellow girls either. I have thrill seeking, strong-willed, opinionated divas who are meaner and messier than any boy I know.

Go ahead, feel bad for my husband, just for a moment.  Then, realize that men determine the gender and I have to do their hair every morning.  Every morning.