He’s unwell—again. Initially, it seems like just a minor fever—perhaps related to teething—but soon escalates into something more concerning. Spots appear on his throat, and a rash develops on his face. His temperature climbs to 102, then 103, and finally 104. “Maaaaaama” calls the owl-shaped monitor perched on my nightstand. I wrap myself in my fuzzy, candy-striped robe, throw my unkempt hair into a ponytail, and brace myself for war.
You know the routine. We’re gearing up for an all-nighter, but not the kind that college students or starry-eyed couples experience. This isn’t going to be glamorous, nor will it turn into a story we share during coffee breaks at work. There won’t be any leftover champagne flutes sparkling on the kitchen counter or clothes strewn about the room—although that could happen! We’re about to summon every ounce of strength to survive the next eight hours without appearing bedraggled or completely out of sorts when morning rolls around.
Hours 1 to 2
The adrenaline kicks in, and I feel surprisingly optimistic. As long as he stays stable, maybe he’ll drift back to sleep soon, and the night won’t be a complete disaster. If we can just keep his symptoms manageable, we can avoid a trip to the ER. Tylenol? Check. Motrin? Check. Thermometer? Check. Let’s do this.
Hours 3 to 4
I begin to negotiate with my little one. Just one more minute, and then Mama will go to bed. I can practically hear him chuckling to himself. He has other ideas, and I’m at his mercy, especially when he looks so adorable with that pouty, distressed expression. “Rub,” he commands, pointing to his back. He assumes the position, and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking, “Rub, woman,” because let’s face it: he’s got me wrapped around his tiny finger. I rock him, rub his back, and create ridiculous song lyrics that barely fit the melody of “Twinkle, Twinkle” because that’s all I can muster at this point. I’m on the 327th round of “Liam, Liam, you’re the best. You shine brighter than all the rest. You are clever, and you are bright. Mama’s here to hold you tight.” Not my proudest moment. Yes, I’m a writer, but this is a whole different kind of battle.
Hours 5 to 6
By now, the adrenaline has dwindled, and I’m still rocking, rubbing, and singing. I try to focus on the silver lining: it’s just a virus, it won’t last forever, and countless other kids are dealing with worse. This isn’t the end of the world. I remind myself to be grateful for whatever illness he doesn’t have. Just hang in there, do what you can, and desperately try to catch a few z’s. But as the sun approaches, I realize that even if I attempt to sneak out into the hallway, that old creaky floor will betray me, waking him up like a seasoned soldier. Caught again. Back to the routine we go.
Hours 7 to 8
All hope seems lost. “Alright, kiddo, you’ve got me beat once again.” “Vee-yos?” Yes, yes, feel free to watch all the videos you want. I bring him into my bed, fire up the Kindle, and head to YouTube. At this point, I’m open to anything short of adult content, so we settle on his new favorite, Blippi. I hear the “Wheels on the Bus” video wrapping up, but I’m teetering on the edge of sleep, making some desperate mental deals. I mentally promise to do whatever it takes if Blippi will just play the tractor song next, buying me a few more precious minutes of peace. Miraculously, Blippi complies, and I feel like I’ve just made a pact with the devil. But I’m okay with it. Blippi and I have an understanding—I can add oral favors to my long to-do list for next week.
Hour 9
Morning has arrived. Somehow, we’ve made it through—mostly. There’s no guarantee that we’ll stay composed until nightfall, but in the light of day, my next mission is clear: find backup childcare so I can load up on caffeine and keep my job. Lunch break? Make it a nap break. Food? That can wait. Maybe I’ll just crash in the backseat of my car. You won’t intimidate me, cold 34-degree day. This mama bear is about to enjoy 60 glorious minutes of snoozing, with Blippi, binky, and baby-free. Just as I start drifting off into a blissful slumber, my phone buzzes.
“He’s throwing up everything I give him. What should I do?” asks my babysitter.
“I’ll be right there,” I reply with a sigh. At least I’m already in the car.
For those navigating the ups and downs of parenthood, it’s important to stay informed. Check out this resource on fertility for additional insights and support.
In conclusion, pulling an all-nighter as a parent is an exhausting battle, but it’s also a testament to the love and resilience we show for our little ones. Remember to take care of yourself and seek support when you need it.