It was 2:30 a.m. on what felt like day six—or maybe seven—of my little one battling a stomach virus. I had scrubbed the car seat more times than I could count and done so much laundry that I genuinely feared I’d never catch up. Mixing bowls were strategically placed throughout the house, ready for any sudden urges that might arise when the bathroom was just too far away. I’ve only been on the receiving end of a few surprise messes, but I’ve become quite proud of my 5-year-old’s newfound skill in reaching for a bucket. My youngest, though, my sweet little almost-2-year-old, doesn’t yet grasp the concept of a bucket. Despite being quite the chatterbox, she lacked the words to warn me before she unleashed all over the bed—herself and, of course, me.
For a few agonizing minutes, she sobbed and heaved while I gently rubbed her back, trying to shield the king-size comforter that was too large for my washing machine. But it soon passed. I quickly changed us both, grabbing my partner’s old T-shirt and some comfy sweats for myself, and carried her into the living room. I rummaged through the clean laundry basket for fresh pajamas for her before settling down on the couch in the dim light of the living room. She was still whimpering, half-asleep, and utterly bewildered. I wrapped her in a blanket and nursed her, feeling a surge of gratitude. At nearly two years old, she still nursed, and I knew that it would soothe her. Breast milk would be easier for her to keep down than the chicken and broccoli I’d served for dinner earlier.
In that quiet moment, it was just the two of us. The sun was beginning to rise, and the darkness of the room hid the clutter of toys and books scattered across the floor. I was able to just exist for a while, holding my baby girl when she needed me most. In that moment, the world outside faded away, and all she wanted was to be in my arms, her long lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks, her big, beautiful eyes gazing up at me. That moment, right there, is what fills me with gratitude for the chaotic, messy nights of parenting. Yes, it’s exhausting, and today, no amount of coffee seems to keep my eyelids from drooping. But I know that this night will be one I cherish when she’s 5 and declares I’m the worst mom ever, or when she’s 9 and rolls her eyes at me, convinced I’m oblivious. I’ll remember it was just us, in a dark room, with birds chirping outside and her wide eyes fixed on me.
This article was originally published on May 29, 2015.
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Summary:
In the wee hours of the morning, a mother recounts the trials of nighttime parenting as she cares for her sick child. Despite the exhaustion and mess of a stomach virus, she cherishes the intimate moments shared with her little one, reflecting on how these experiences will shape their future relationship.