Nighttime used to belong solely to me.
Then came the restless nights, your little feet pushing against my ribs. Next, it was the rhythm of contractions, one after another, convincing me that this was the moment. Now, I find myself jolted awake by your cries, pulling me from the depths of sleep. My nights are marked by the sweet scent of milk as I rise every couple of hours. It’s 12:45 AM, then 3:20 AM, followed by 5:30 AM—some might argue that’s morning, but to me, it’s just an extension of a long night.
I often wake in a panic, wondering why you haven’t stirred me awake. Your warmth radiates against my chest, a reminder of when I last administered your medicine. The thump of your small body hitting the floor reminds me that you’re still adjusting to sleeping in a bed. Your breath brushes against my face, urging my eyes to open, while whispers in the dark plead for a glass of water—just one more, please.
Then there are the moments of changing the sheets, soaked through with urine, accompanied by promises that it won’t happen again. You’ve got your own reading light now, a beacon of independence that somehow gets left on too often. “I’m worried, Mom, I can’t sleep,” you say, followed by your soft footfalls on the stairs. “I’m not tired, Mom,” sometimes it feels like you’re more awake than I am.
Before long, your bedtime will surpass mine, and there will come a night when I pick you up from a party at midnight. I can already imagine the creak of the front door, the clock ticking away as you come in, with me not there to greet you. Each night inevitably shifts into daybreak, marking another day of you growing older.
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In summary, the nights are a tapestry of cherished moments, struggles, and the bittersweet passage of time, reminding us that parenting is a journey filled with both challenges and joy.