Every generation has very strong opinions about sleep.

They deliver them confidently. Loudly. Usually unsolicited.

And every single one of them swears they’ve cracked the code.

Spoiler: they have not.

There’s the “keep the house silent” generation.

For the love of God, let the baby sleep.

No dishes. No TV. No breathing too hard. If I hear a noise, heaven itself cannot help you.

Then there’s the “make noise from birth” crowd.

Vacuum. Bang cabinets. Live your life so they “get used to it.”

Really? Susan, really?

Because you’re 43 and if I start the vacuum while you’re sleeping, you’re going to launch your Stanley full of TikTok-inspired water directly at my head.

Then there’s the mixed-advice generation.

Some days it’s white noise.

Some days it’s silence.

Some days it’s vibes.

No one knows why. We’re just guessing now.

And then there are the seasoned moms.

Seasoned by number of kids, not age. I’m not old, I swear.

Also, if you’re using words like skibbidi rizz Ohio, you don’t get to call me old and if you did, I wouldn’t understand you anyway.

Seasoned moms don’t argue about sleep advice.

We’ve lived it. In phases. In scars.

Phase One: Newborn

Everyone better be quiet.

If I hear a noise, I will see God and take you with me.

Phase Two: Around One

We make all the noise.

Why? Because we are sleep deprived, short on sanity, and completely out of f*cks.

The baby can sleep through a fire alarm or they can’t either way, the dishwasher is running.

Then comes Year Three.

And listen carefully when I say this:

There is something deeply inhuman about a three-year-old.

My days are spent rapidly switching between hostage negotiations, overseeing peacekeeping deals better than Madam Secretary herself, and surviving behaviors that black-site operatives could absolutely learn from.

Honestly, why are we not sending an army of three-year-olds to extract information from people?

No adult would last ten minutes.

There are moments real moments where I consider the go-bag hidden in the walls.

The one with multiple passports, open-ended plane tickets, various currencies, and a promise to never look back.

And then just when I’m about to disappear into a new identity

She flips a switch.

She snuggles in.

Tells me I’m so pretty.

Kisses me with a mouth full of Capri Sun breath.

And somehow, miraculously, the entire day erases itself from my brain.

All offenses forgiven.

All rage deleted.

We fall asleep together.

The world feels right.

Until a few hours later, when she shifts in her sleep.

That’s when the weird sleep rules begin.

You stop breathing.

You stop moving.

You accept whatever position you’re trapped in as your final form.

Because even the smallest twitch will convince her it’s morning.

And if morning starts early, your limits will be tested again.

Final Phase (Pending Results)

Around four or five, something shifts.

They sleep longer.

They don’t start the day at full volume.

You stop bracing for impact every night.

Your body recovers.

Your brain quiets.

You begin to trust sleep again.

You almost feel competent.

Unless, of course, you also have a teenager who locks their keys in a running car while scraping ice off the windshield before the sun has time to shine. 

But that’s a story for another day.