It was 2:30 a.m., and we were on day six (or maybe seven?) of my little one battling the stomach flu. The car seat has been cleaned more times than I can count, and the laundry pile seems to grow endlessly. I’ve set up mixing bowls throughout the house, ready for any urgent moments when they can’t reach the bathroom in time. Thankfully, I’ve only been on the receiving end of a few messes, and I take a strange pride in my 5-year-old’s ability to dash for a bucket. But my youngest, my precious nearly 2-year-old, doesn’t understand the need for a bucket. Despite her impressive vocabulary, she couldn’t express her discomfort before throwing up all over the bed, herself, and—yep, you guessed it—me.
For a few agonizing minutes, she sobbed and retched while I gently rubbed her back, trying desperately to protect the king-size comforter that’s far too large for my washing machine. And then it passed. I stripped us both down, threw on my husband’s T-shirt along with some old sweats for myself, and carried her into the dimly lit living room. I sifted through the clean laundry basket for fresh pajamas for her, then settled onto the couch in the soft glow of dawn. She was still whimpering, half-awake, utterly confused, and terrified. Wrapping her in a blanket, I nursed her, thankful that at almost two years old, she still turns to me for comfort. I knew breast milk would soothe her stomach, even if she couldn’t keep down the chicken and broccoli from dinner.
In that moment, it was just the two of us. The birds began to sing outside, and the darkness of the room concealed the clutter of toys scattered on the floor. I found a rare moment of peace, holding my little girl when she needed me most. Her long eyelashes cast soft shadows on her cheeks, and her big, bright eyes looked up at me. That moment—just she and I, in a dark room with the gentle sounds of morning—made me appreciate the chaos of nighttime parenting. Sure, it’s messy, and I can’t seem to drink enough coffee to open my eyes fully, but this is a memory I’ll cherish when she’s five, declaring I’m the worst mother in the world, or nine, when she rolls her eyes at me, thinking I’m not watching. I’ll remember those early morning hours, filled with love, even amid the chaos.
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In summary, while nighttime parenting can be exhausting and messy, it also brings unparalleled moments of connection and love that become cherished memories.
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