The Late-Night Musings of a Tired Mother

It’s now 3:15 am. The baby is awake, again. For the nth time tonight. She wants to go back to sleep, but sleeping just isn't her thing, and apparently mine, in this era of our lives. The night is quiet, and the only sound is the hum of the white noise machine and the groan of my own frustrations as I try to get my daughter back to sleep and she wakes up again as I try to shift her out of my arms. 

My nighttime routine used to be simple. Sure, my son needed to be fed, bathed, changed, swaddled (as an infant), rocked, and eventually he'd sleep. Did he wake up during the night? Of course, but eventually he started sleeping through the night. But with my daughter? It’s like a marathon with no finish line. The endless rhythm of rocking, shushing, singing, and softly whispering “It’s okay, go back to sleep” is like chasing the horizon. Not only is it frustrating, but all I want is to collapse into bed myself. Sleep through one continuous night.

As I cradle her, the exhaustion wraps itself around me like a blanket. And finally, as my baby’s breathing steadies and she drifts off, I find myself in the most unexpected of places: lost in thought. All I want is to sink into my pillow and let the cobwebs of sleep take over, but the quietness of the night bears rumination.

How did I get here? Did I not want to be here for the longest time? It's this strangest feeling of being stuck in-between being needed 24/7 and often completely invisible at the same time. I also think about how much marriage and motherhood has changed me. There was a time where being up at the wee hours of the morning meant having a good time and probably sleeping in the next day. But now, it’s just part of the routine—multiple late night/early morning awakenings every single day of the week. Tired eyes, sometimes heavy heart, and yet, somehow, my heart is so full, holding that tiny, warm hand in mine.

And I wonder: When will I get sleep again? The answer comes in the form of a small cry as I place my baby back in her bed, trying valiantly not to wake her, for the nth time.

And so for now, I savor this: the quiet breathing, the warm, soft weight of my baby’s body in my arms, the small moments of connection that are all too easy to forget during the day.

It's not just about motherhood, but about marriage too—about the quiet, unseen work of partnership. These nights (and days!) are exhausting, yes, but they’re also full of tiny, sacred moments of connection. Not just with our children, but with each other. Sometimes it's in how my husband takes the baby and is "on call" throughout the night, and sometimes it's in carrying the weight in a different way. We don’t always get long, uninterrupted conversations or grand gestures these days, but in this hush of the night, I’m reminded that we’re still showing up for this life we’ve built together. Quietly. Tirelessly. Side by side.

But tomorrow, when the sun rises and the kids are jumping on my head because the sun has risen, I’ll probably feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Until then, though, here I am—holding my baby close in the dead of night, wondering how much longer I’ll be able to do this, while also knowing these moments are fleeting, and I’ll miss them when they’re gone.

For now, though…please, let me sleep.