It’s that dreaded moment again—my little one is unwell. A slight fever at first, maybe just teething, but it escalates quickly. I spot a rash on his face and a few spots in his throat, while his temperature climbs to alarming heights of 102, 103, and even 104. “Maaaaama!” calls the owl-shaped monitor on my nightstand, and I know it’s time to throw on my fluffy robe, tie my hair back in a messy ponytail, and brace myself for a long night ahead.
This isn’t the kind of all-nighter that college students or lovebirds experience. There’s no romance, no funny stories to share with coworkers later. I won’t wake up to sparkling champagne glasses or clothes tossed around the room—though that’s a possibility if my toddler’s antics continue. No, this is a test of endurance. I need to summon the strength not only to survive the next eight hours but also to make it through the day ahead without appearing completely wiped out.
Hours 1 to 2
The initial adrenaline rush is empowering. I can handle this, I tell myself. As long as he stays stable, he might drift back to sleep soon. We can avoid the ER. Tylenol? Check. Motrin? Check. Thermometer? Check. We’re ready to tackle this.
Hours 3 to 4
As fatigue begins to creep in, I start making deals. “Just one more time, then Mama will go to bed,” I negotiate, but he seems to have other plans. With his adorably pouted face, he’s got me wrapped around his tiny finger. “Rub,” he commands, pointing to his back, and I can’t help but comply. I find myself concocting silly rhymes to fit the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle,” while I rock him back and forth. “Hudson, Hudson, you’re the best. You shine bright, forget the rest…” I can’t say I’m proud of this lyrical creation, but I’m in survival mode.
Hours 5 to 6
As the night wears on, I continue to rock, rub, and sing. I try to focus on the bright side: it’s just a virus; it won’t last forever. Other kids have it worse—this could be much more serious. Just hang on, I keep reminding myself, and maybe I can sneak in a bit of sleep. But the floorboards creak under my feet, and his neurotic little body snaps awake, as if he’s been training all night for this moment.
Hours 7 to 8
I throw in the towel. “Alright, buddy, you win,” I concede. “You can watch all the videos you want.” I take him to bed with me, pull out the Kindle, and open YouTube. As long as it’s not too wild, I’ll let him indulge, so we settle on Blippi. The first video wraps up, and I’m teetering on the edge of sleep, negotiating with my tired brain for just a moment of silence. “Please, Blippi, play the tractor song next!” I think desperately. Miraculously, he does, and I feel like I’ve made a pact with the devil, but I’m in too deep now.
Hour 9
Morning arrives, and somehow we’ve made it through the night. I’m not quite sure how we’ll manage until bedtime again, but at least the sun is up, and I can start planning my escape to find backup childcare. Caffeine will be my best friend today, and I’ll need to nap during lunch. Food? That can wait. As I’m about to drift into a much-needed snooze, my phone buzzes.
“He’s throwing up everything I give him. What should I do?” my babysitter texts.
“I’ll be right there,” I reply with a sigh, already on my way.
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In summary, pulling an all-nighter as a parent is an exhausting but ultimately rewarding experience. It tests your limits and prepares you for the delightful chaos of parenting, even when you feel like you’ve been run over by a truck.