MotherSister Brooklyn

Tight close-up on a full mouth. A deep masculine voice says, “Can I get you anything else?” Pull back to reveal Boris Kodjoe — no, Isaach De Bankolé, my taste has become more seasoned — dressed in an Ozwald Boateng suit, standing on the deck of my St. Lucian bungalow against a backdrop of the Caribbean Sea. Or no, maybe it’s Takeshi Kaneshiro in Prada, on the deck of my Indonesian bungalow against the backdrop of the Indian Ocean. No matter.

I snuggle into my silk robe, having just emerged from an outdoor garden shower. “No thanks,” I pip breezily. I toss my head toward the Frette-sheeted twin bed. “I have what I need.”

He turns. He goes. I turn. I collapse into a cloud. Fade to black.

A badly scratched Mary Poppins LP clatters against my head. I open one eye against the light. The Scamp is standing over me, a look of indignation on his face. “Mama!” he reprimands. I’m curled up on his floor. Caught at it again.

I used to fantasize about sex. Now, post-Scamp, I fantasize about sleep.

I fantasize about where to do it. On a pillowtop in my favorite Left Bank hotel in Paris, with cytise-scented breezes blowing over my face. On a Caribbean beach of refined sugar, with a belly full of grilled snapper and rum punches. On a sky bed in a tree in the hills around Bologna. On a worn-down, floppy mattress in a ramshackle rough-hewn wood cabin. On my sun-bleached couch, in my living room.

I fantasize about how to do it. Deeply, and for hours, of course. Days, even. With my head tossed back, mouth open in abandon, soundless, still. Or thrashing, air kicking with raucous, wall-shaking snoring. Why be quiet about my ecstasy?

I fantasize about who to do it with. The Sandman, the one, the only. I cover my eyes in dust, I shrink back into the cloak, darkness descending. I haven’t been so alone since my boy took root.

Back away from the “Comments” button. Don’t think I haven’t heard all the sleep advice. Everyone is full of “You just need to…”s. “You just need to sleep when the baby sleeps.” “You just need to go to bed early.” “You just need to let him cry it out.” “You just need to wean that baby.” But these little nuggets of wisdom are generally dished out by those who had easy sleepers, didn’t nurse, have no children, or are almost sweetly unsuspecting of the white-hot rebuke they’re inviting. They also don’t understand the cumulative nature of the problem; after nearly 2 years of interrupted sleep, even if I were guaranteed 8 solid hours, it’s unlikely I could actually settle into that unbroken stretch straight away. The exhaustion of motherhood, I’ve learned, is the primal reactiveness you have to the slightest indication that your child needs your attention and protection. You’re attuned even when you’re supposedly unconscious; you’re never off duty.

So, no choice but to tough it out. Snapped awake again, I give The Scamp a wan smile and tell him to pass I Want to Be an Astronaut or his toy airplane to me. I read up on retreats and luxury hotel packages and I sock away a little pin money toward the cause. If my eyes are glassy and I seem to have short-term memory loss, rest assured that I have a plan to sleep the sleep of 1,000 little deaths in a bed of my own making.