Jessica Yen
Houdini
When your second child has been thrashing for twenty-one minutes in their bassinet, you finally recognize, with a clarity you could not have possessed with your eldest, that your infant is so achingly overtired they are physically unable to drift into slumber. Two newborn phases and three pregnancies have acquainted you with the peculiar combination you now recognize in your flailing baby: the muscles that throb with exhaustion even as the mind skips and glides, churns and crashes. As you watch them drift into deep slow breathing, only to flop onto their back and scream in desperation, your impatience slowly dissipates.
This feels so hard, you murmur as you rub their upper back. You really want to be asleep.
They moan. Fidget. Flop to the left. To the right. Burrow their face into the mattress, belly down, butt skyward, knees tucked under.
That’s right. Get comfortable.
They roll onto their back, fling an arm into the air, and wail.
Hey – hey – you’re not alone. You’re just going to sleep. Yes. Exactly. Just like that. You’re calming yourself. Let your body relax even more. You’re just settling in for sleep.
Gradually, the thrashing lessens. The length of time between random startlings increases. You remove your hand. You draw out the time between your murmurings.
You’re doing it, sweetheart. I know this is hard but I think you can get there. You’ve done this before.
Is it the rhythm of your voice? The ability to concentrate on something other than their shut eyelids and the elusiveness of their desired end result, the gentle cadence akin to lullabies? How much of what you say is even comprehensible to a baby under the age of one? You know babies understand far more than we give them credit for, but this? Perhaps your second would settle themselves regardless of your presence (perhaps, even, to your chagrin, would settle themselves faster without your presence), and your perception of your great assistance is merely your ego speaking. But you persist because if there’s even a remote chance this might help, then you’ll do it – one definition of parenthood.
Your second cries out unexpectedly. They pry their head up to look about the room as they shriek in frustration.
You’re not alone, you say immediately.
Back to bed. It’s OK. You’re closer than you think.
They drop their head back down. Rub their cheek on the mattress. This time, when their legs twitch at random, they continue dozing.
You feel like Houdini. You want to do an ecstatic jig. Beat your chest; prance around the room giving yourself self-high-fives. Instead, you linger by their bassinet for an additional ten minutes, watching for zombie wakings, a hand hovering by the side of the bassinet, ready to descend at a moment’s notice.
The last time you lived with your parents as an adult, you went through a rough insomniatic stretch while working a job that brought out the worst of your perfectionistic tendencies. Falling asleep had always been your difficulty but now you also struggled with staying asleep. Once, after you’d spent four or five hours thrashing in bed, you threw back the sheets and crept into the hallway, where you pranced in front of your parent’s room for a couple minutes, hand raised but unable to press open the door. Desperation drew your fingers forward like a magnet. Shame tugged it back in the direction of your room. You knew they both had to be up early for long commutes. Your mother, in particular, would need to be up in a couple hours.
Finally, your hand pressed the door open and in you crept. You padded silently to their bed. Still desperate, still ashamed, you stood by your mother’s side of the bed, watching her chest drift up and down, unable to allow yourself to reach out a hand or call out to her.
Her eyes flew open. She gasped, an enormous heaving intake of air, like someone breaking through the surface after being underwater for too long. (You realize as you type this that you make the exact same gasp whenever your oldest wakes you in the middle of the night)
What is it?!
How comforted you felt when she followed you back to your room. That she did not lash out at you for startling her, or reflexively wave off your desperation as dramatic and unnecessary. That she saw your need and still came to your side, after so many years. That she stayed, even after you’d burrowed back under the comforter and shut your eyes. Her voice, reassuring you that all would be well. She traced a light finger over your forehead, swooping slow luxurious curlicues along each temple. She said, I did this when you were a baby, too.
Perhaps it has everything to do with the words you offer, and also, nothing at all.
Jessica Yen is a Chinese American author who explores the intersection of memory, family, culture, language, identity, and history. Her work has been supported by Caldera Arts, Kimmel Harding Nelson Center, and an Oregon Literary Fellowship. She is a twice-Pushcart Prize nominated essayist whose work has appeared in Fourth Genre, Short Reads, The Masters Review, and Best American Travel Writing, among others. She is working on a memoir. You can find her online at www.jessicayen.com.