How Depression Created Our Bedtime Routine | Motherhood & Mental Health

Even before I was pregnant, I was an avid reader.

I loved blending together the best categories from the Goodreads, Popsugar, & 52 Weeks challenges -& averaged 60–70 books a year, while also participating in a few book clubs.

My wedding was Wonderland/book-themed. My vows talked about being in the pages of a book, & my husband even started reading with me, creating our own book club.

When I got pregnant, my reading ramped up to 118 books that year.

At my baby shower, I asked for favorite books instead of cards.

During my daughter’s first year, I read 120 books, (woo record breaking!) devouring chapters during late-night pumping sessions.

Reading wasn’t just something I did. It was part of who I was.

& I couldn’t wait to share that part of myself with my daughter. I waited for the day I could bring her to our library. 

When I was a kid, I remember walking into our library with my brother & the librarians knew that he loved pigs, so they’d see him coming & pull books they thought he’d love. I was ecstatic when one day a librarian did that for us.

I was proud that our librarians knew us. She saw us walking in & said something like, “Oh! I just stocked your holds. Con, right?”

One of my crowning reading achievements.

Then, my daughter got her first library card. She chose her own books.

She’d spend, & still does, what felt like forever at the desk with our librarians searching for books about whatever her topic of the week is.

I tell you all of this because I need you to understand just how deep reading is to me. 

So when I say, now at home my husband is the bedtime story parent, you can understand how completely depressed it makes me. 

PAUSE.

Before anyone thinks I’m about to slam the pages on my husband. . . I’m not.

If I told him this hurt me,  he would absolutely tell the kids, “Let’s listen to Mommy!” & hand the book over. That’s not what I want.

I also know I can take control of the routine. I can say, “I want to read tonight.” But that’s not how our routine was created.

PJs. Brush teeth. Potty.

Whoever finishes first gets to pick the book.

Dad reads the book & Mommy sings the special lullabies.

Why does this hurt so much & I don’t simply pick up a book?

Because bedtime wasn’t & isn’t always easy.

When I was in the thick of postpartum depression, my daughter was nearly impossible to get to sleep.

When I was finally coming out of that fog & starting to feel like myself again, she still refused to sleep.

& even on the days when I feel great, when I have energy, patience, & a full emotional cup, bedtime could still turn into chaos.

The girl does not like to sleep.

For context, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom, a work-from-home mom, and now have a flexible schedule. I’m around my kids a lot.

I’m there for the activities. The meals. The play. The million little moments that make up their childhood. & by bedtime, when everyone is loopy, I am running on fumes.

& again, context: we tried everything & it still didn’t work.

So, I don’t have the capacity to co-sleep, adding my daughter is sweaty & kicks. 😂 I don’t always have the headspace to lie beside her for an hour. I don’t want to sit in the hallway waiting for her to fall asleep after spending the entire day together, knowing that time is the only little piece of the evening I have left for myself.

Therefore, we created boundaries.

Bedtime is Bedtime. 

You are safe. We are 20 feet away. This is your time to rest. This is our time to recharge.

Our own little rhythm.

The lullabies are a big part of it.

My daughter’s lullaby started because, at one point, I was trying to mask my crying with singing. “Go to bed, please rest your head…”

My son’s started because I was trying to mask my frustration at repeatedly calling his name. “Maxy, Maxy, Maxy…”

Now, they won’t go to sleep without their lullabies.

& I love that. I really, really love that.

But the books were different. 

Because they would want three.. . no four. . . one more.

& I’d find myself saying, “Didn’t we play library for hours today? No more books.”

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I created a bedtime boundary to protect my own exhaustion: “Ask Daddy to read.” Dad reads. Mom sings. 

Now things are different.

The days are calmer. My head is clearer.

I don’t feel like I’m desperate at the end of the day anymore.

& as I watch my husband completely embrace “Daddy’s job,” I genuinely love it.

I love hearing the silly voices. I love seeing their little faces light up.

& yet…there’s this tiny thought in the back of my mind:

I did this.

I built our routine when I was struggling.

I think that’s one of the strange things about depression: sometimes survival doesn’t look like surviving. Sometimes it looks like creating a routine that simply gets you through the day. 

& now that I don’t need those boundaries in quite the same way…

I’m realizing I miss something I accidentally gave away.

Sometimes the things we do to survive a hard season become routines we carry long after the storm passes.

Now, I sit & listen as Daddy reads. I know “Mommy sings” comes next.

& when it does, I sing with all my heart.

I don’t want to take over bedtime story time. I don’t want to take something away from my husband or my kids. I’m learning to embrace what I have, make room for the ache of what I don’t, & be present. I can listen along. I can laugh at the silly voices. I can react to the story.

& that’s something I couldn’t give them before.

I am not the worst mother because I didn’t & don’t read the books. 

“This is Alma’s lullaby, I sing it so she doesn’t cry. I sing it please go to bed, please rest your head. . .

“oh Maxy, Maxy, Maxy, it’s so plain to see you’re fussy because you’re sleepy. . . “