The books talk a lot about babies learning to soothe themselves. There is scant information on how mothers can do the same.

Friday night was…how to put it…disastrous. On the Mom Keeping It Together front, I mean. See, I’ve apparently approached my relationship with The Kid much like how I used to approach my relationship with God: as if we had brokered a deal wherein there was a tacit agreement to terms I created, terms that conveniently fit into my schedule and life plan. With God, it was “I’ll be good and you make things go well.” With TK, it was “You’re now only getting up once a night after sleeping for five hours; you will only improve from that routine.”

God let our false agreement fall apart; TK did likewise this weekend.

No one should be held totally accountable for what happens after midnight, right? At 1 am on Friday night/Saturday morning, TK erupted into inexplicable screams. “What the hell?” I muttered to myself, The Husband waking beside me. “It’s too early for him to be hungry.”

I waited a minute; the crying didn’t cease. I slammed my head against the pillow. “Well I guess I’ll just go f-ing feed him,” I hissed, much to TH’s (and my) horror. I hurled myself out of bed, and TH followed me to the nursery like a shadow. He changed TK’s diaper and delivered him to the Boppy on my lap. And Did. Not. Leave. He was justly shaken by my behavior, and I was too. Once again, I was stuck in the never-ending cycle of overreact–feel guilty–cry–apologize. I looked down at TK, happily slurping away, oblivious to the inner (and outer) turmoil that his cries engendered. I cried harder. I looked up at TH, who was so not oblivious to the turmoil. Shit, I thought. We’re going to have to TALK about this.

It began with a kindness that I took as judgment: his telling me that I couldn’t let every cry undo me. I explained through my own tears that it’s impossible for me not to have an emotional reaction to TK’s crying–that it affects me more than I ever expected, that for all my pre-birth studying, the books had not prepared me for this. That I always knew I was rigid and demanding, but when TK veers off “our” schedule, it not only frustrates me but makes me doubt myself as a mother. That was when TH’s reassurances grew plainer, his encouragement louder. The three of us reached a tenuous detente there in the darkness, TK’s swallowing punctuating the tension in the air.

The next day, I was graciously afforded a visit to the gym. When I arrived home, I found a card in the one place TH knew I was most likely to find it: the daytime nursing spot on the couch. My seeming home base these days. Grace in the trenches. I opened it to find more encouragement, and a spa certificate. My bad behavior met with unconditional love–seems like I’ve found that somewhere before.

And TK seems to be helping out now, too. His fussiness has stalled a little; he’s responding to intentional nap rituals and to the magical “shhh!” that is both a soothing technique for him and a version of the yoga “ohmm” for me. I breathe in grace and breathe out patience; it’s a slow process, but it’s happening. As the sound reaches TK’s tiny ears, he quiets a bit and peace washes over both of us. I’m learning that a schedule, a plan of my own making, is not likely to work without being amended or sometimes even traded in altogether. So I add an “ish” to every note on the calendar, to every date and time and expectation. It took me nearly thirty years to hand over my old plan to God and accept the offensive truth that he had a better one. Maybe it won’t take as long with TK for me to learn that grace flows in multiple directions.