Go to sleep’ so I can rest. I’ve said it dozens of times, yet I’ve never truly rested. Over time, I realized that it’s during the night when I’m most needed.
When the darkness falls, when everything quiets down, and the street noise fades away. It’s then, when they can no longer hear mom pacing back and forth, and the comforting sounds of the house are absent. That’s when everything sleeps, but their anxiety ‘awakens,’ and the need for ‘I want mom’ becomes even more pressing.
Endless sleepless nights—not with crying or fevers, but with company, cuddles, jokes, and gentle caresses. With ‘turn on the light,’ ‘I saw a shadow.’ With little bare feet pattering through the hallway, across the floor, to find a hug.
It’s then when all the ‘imaginary’ needs for water, milk, or a snack arise. It’s when strange ideas and curious questions emerge from their little minds, prompted by stories and fairy tales, at the most ‘inconvenient’ time for adults, but the most appropriate for children. Now, when parents have no ‘work’ to do, they are available. Now, they can’t say ‘I have to finish this,’ ‘I’m on the phone,’ ‘the food will burn,’ ‘I need to go,’ ‘not now,’ ‘later.’ Now, all the ‘excuses’ disappear under the veil of night. Now, they need us.
It’s exhausting, I know. It’s draining, I know that too. But I put myself in their shoes. Back when I, too, would wake up in the night, clutching my teddy bear, to climb into my parents’ bed. When I would call out ‘mamaaaa’ ten times to make sure she would come, no matter what. When the little nightlight they left on wasn’t enough, and everything in the dark seemed to take on a more menacing form. I thought the doll would come to life, or that someone was hiding behind the curtain. Even though my mom had told me a thousand times that there was nothing to fear, and even though she put me to sleep with stories that always had happy endings, nothing was enough. I needed her there, right next to me, my sleepless guardian.
These are the memories I hold. I remember myself as a child, and I understand their needs. I don’t know if this is empathy—perhaps it is. Putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. And that’s what I do. I ‘step into’ those tiny shoes with flowers and animals and become a child again. I feel that need. That’s why I rush to comfort, to keep company, to hug, to talk, to shine a flashlight under the blanket. I want them to know that their needs will be met, to feel that I’ll always be here. These nights, after all, bring us closer and bond us like nothing else.
And no, I don’t believe I’m raising spoiled children. I’m raising children who feel secure, who know that no matter what happens, someone will rush to their room. I cherish these moments, holding them inside me to light up the future, when the roles will be reversed. I keep them for when I’ll want to enter that room, to stroke a head or listen to a breath, but the door will be closed—perhaps with a huge ‘No Entry’ sticker. It’s called adolescence. That’s how I’ll get through it too—with memories of the sweet sleepless nights of the past. When I knew that, during the day, the child needed me less. It’s the night that truly counts.
