By Ashlee Gadd
@ashleegadd

Every night before we go to sleep, my husband throws half the pillows off our bed with a sigh. This remains one of our dumbest marital arguments: I sleep with three pillows, he sleeps with one, and both of us believe our way to be best. The more the merrier is my pillow mantra; one and done is his. 

One night I hear the distinct pitter patter of feet entering our bedroom, and I wonder if I’m dreaming. But at 3 a.m., on my way back to bed from the bathroom, I bend down and feel around with my hands until they land on my three-year-old's body. As it turns out, those extra pillows make a perfect landing spot. Our daughter is currently nestled on top of them, sleeping soundly on the floor at the edge of our bed like a dog.

Hours later, I’m making waffles in the kitchen when Presley wanders in talking about bad dreams and monsters. I squeeze a dollop of syrup onto a red plastic plate, and ask her what the monster looked like.

“Da monster was sooooooooo big, mommy, just like you,” she says, stretching her arms in the air to indicate the monster’s height.

“Was it scary?” I ask, ripping a fresh waffle into quarters and arranging the pieces on her plate.

“Yeah dat was scary,” she nods. “Da monster was super real.”

***

I’ve battled insomnia, on and off, for as long as I can remember. I’ve tried cutting out afternoon caffeine. Instituting consistent bedtimes. Lavender oils and baths and pillow sprays? Check, check, check. I’ve tried every over-the-counter sleeping aid on the market: Unisom, Zzzquil, Tylenol PM, and—this is not an exaggeration—at least ten different varieties of melatonin. I’ve tried magnesium. I’ve tried setting the thermostat two degrees cooler. I’ve tried a silk sleep mask, as seen in my Instagram ads (well done, algorithm). 

Without listing every Internet sleeping tip out there, let’s just say: if it’s been suggested on a Reddit thread, there’s a 95% chance I have tried it. 

After much trial and error, I’m pleased to report my bedtime routine now consists of the following: three pillows strategically placed around my body, 1 milligram of melatonin with L-theanine and GABA, a 15-lb weighted blanket pinning me to the bed, an oscillating fan facing my direction, and a steady stream of white noise playing next to my head. 

I’m falling asleep quicker with this high-maintenance bedtime routine, but falling asleep isn’t the problem. 

The real problem is 3 a.m.—when the monsters come for me, too. The real problem is the middle of the night, when my mind turns into a haunted house.

***

Ghosts of regret come for me first. Every action I wish I could do over, every mistake I’ve made, circling me like a fog. Once I’m filled with fresh remorse, the ghosts vanish into a brick wall and suddenly I’m outside, surrounded by a swarm of locusts. 

The buzzing of their wings is deafening, reminding me of every impending task, email, and deadline. So many appointments to make. Bills to pay. Forms to fill out for school. Don’t forget: you need to pay that invoice. Don’t forget: all three children need new bike helmets. Don’t forget: you’re overdue for an eye appointment. I swat my hands in the air, attempting to clear the sky. 

The locusts disappear, and for a brief moment I believe I am safe, until I start feeling heat against my back. I turn around slowly to the sight of a fire-breathing dragon towering above me. I drop to my knees and cover my face, but it’s no use. Flames of critical feedback descend on me until my entire body is charred with one-star reviews and negative comments. My skin burns while the dragon laughs. 

I beg for water, pleading for relief. In a twisted answer to my cries, a sea creature rises, coasting in on a tidal wave of guilt. My eyes sting from the salt water as its slimy tentacles wrap around my body, squeezing me like a snake. I slip under the water, trapped, unable to breathe, forced to reconcile with all the ways I am failing everything and everyone. 

***

We’re in the car driving to Costco when Presley mentions her nightmare again. 

“What did the monster look like?” I ask her. 

“It looked like …” she pauses for dramatic effect, “A skeleton riding a Peloton bike!”

I stifle a laugh, wondering if she’s telling the truth or if she just made that up on the spot.

“Did you have any good dreams?” I ask her.

“Well,” she says, “I tried to dream about good stuff, but I couldn’t dream about dat.”

My eyes meet hers in the rear-view mirror and I think of all the times that I, too, have tried to dream about good stuff, but couldn’t. It’s not all dragons and ghosts. Sometimes I dream about real monsters, too, like the kind that could hurt my kids.

As we turn into the Costco parking lot, I remind my daughter that we can pray when we have bad dreams. That’s usually what I start with. Then I recite as much of Psalm 23 as I can remember. Then I count to 100. 200. Sometimes 300. I focus on my breath. Inhale. Exhale. I pray again. Occasionally I get up and turn the coffee on at 4 a.m. I don’t mind reading on the couch in the dark while my entire family sleeps, waiting for daylight and new mercies to come. They always arrive, eventually.

I ask Presley what she does when she has a bad dream, besides come into our room and sleep on the floor. 

“Well,” she says, “Last time I hugged my pillow four times and then I feeled bedder.” 

I smile and tell her that’s good, and that I like to hug my pillows, too, whenever I feel scared. I wish I could tell my daughter that she’ll outgrow bad dreams some day. That when she gets bigger, like me, all of her nightmares will go away. 

In reality though, the monsters might simply shift and change.

Later that night, Presley and I are curled up in the rocking chair together, my favorite part of the day. She’s wearing a princess nightgown and her hair is still wet from a bath. Our hips are pressed together in the chair, and she slips her tiny hand around my arm, laying her head against my left shoulder as I narrate The Gruffalo, a monster story that makes both of us laugh.

After the last line, I close the book, toss it on the floor, and Presley hops down to turn off the light. She runs back to me in the dark, jumping into my lap as I throw my arms around her in a hug, whispering a prayer straight into her ear. Dear God, please keep Presley safe tonight. Thank you for loving us and protecting us.

My husband tucks her into bed with all of her necessities: lovey, baby, blanket, one more sip of water. Two hours later, I tuck myself into bed with all of mine: melatonin, weighted blanket, white noise, three pillows. 

On opposite sides of the house, we drift off to sleep—hoping the monsters leave us alone tonight, but expecting new mercies in the morning either way. 

Ashlee Gadd is a wife, mother of three, believer, and the founder of Coffee + Crumbs. When she's not working or vacuuming Cheerios out of the carpet, she loves making friends on the Internet, eating cereal for dinner, and rearranging bookshelves. Keep up with her work at ashleegadd.com.