Last night, I woke up with Noah at 2:30 a.m.
Mike usually takes that shift, but he didn’t stir—so I got up. Not out of martyrdom, not out of resentment—just love, instinct, and the unspoken agreement that sometimes you let your partner rest when you can.
Our usual routine is almost muscle memory now:
Get the baby. Change the diaper. Feed until milk-drunk and limp like a noodle.
Set him back down gently. Hope for the best.
But last night, I tried something different.
I thought, Maybe I can just settle him without the whole dance.
So I offered him the pacifier and shushed gently in the dark, my hand resting on his chest.
And… it worked.
For thirty minutes.
Then he woke up again—angrier.
As if I’d tricked him with a decaf version of comfort.
Fair.
So I got him up for real, changed his diaper (yes, I logged it—because my life is now run by apps that track poop), and settled into my breastfeeding throne on the couch.
It’s nothing special. Just a familiar pile of pillows and one worn-in blanket.
But in the middle of the night, it becomes sacred.
As he nursed, I watched his tiny hand rest against my chest, rubbing gently, comforting himself like he’s done this a thousand times.
He cooed. He sighed.
And he fell into that familiar milk-drunk sleep.
And I melted.
I thought about how long it took to get here.
How many mornings I woke up wondering if this would ever happen.
And now I was here—tired, yes—but holding a real, breathing miracle.
After he finished, I brought him to his room.
Yes—go us—he’s already sleeping in his own crib, and he’s not even four months old yet. (He turns four months on July 27th.)
I swaddled him, laid him down… and he cried immediately.
Pick up = sleep.
Lay down = crying.
Repeat for an hour.
Eventually, I figured it out.
He didn’t want milk. He didn’t need burping or bouncing.
He just wanted me. My smell. My warmth. My heartbeat.
So I went back to the couch, held him close, and let him sleep in my arms.
I didn’t look at the clock.
I didn’t doom-scroll.
I just listened to his breath and thought: This is it. This is the motherhood no one sees.
At 4:30, I finally got him back down. He slept for 30 minutes.
I tapped Mike in, hoping for a short break.
But a few cries later, I was back up—because apparently my internal mom alarm overrides all logic and delegation.
Mike tried, but I couldn’t handle the sound of Noah crying.
It had been three hours since our first round of breastfeeding anyway, so I sent my very tired husband back to bed and started over.
Diaper. Nurse. Rock.
This time… it worked.
But now I was wide awake.
So I snuck into the bedroom, placed the monitor gently on Mike’s nightstand (it’s your turn, buddy), and took the opportunity to do something I haven’t done in what feels like 100 years:
I took an uninterrupted shower.
Except… it wasn’t uninterrupted.
Because: phantom cries.
I checked the monitor app on my phone three separate times because I was absolutely certain I heard Noah screaming.
He wasn’t. My brain was just in survival mode.
Still, I finished the shower like a Navy SEAL. Just in case.
I dried off, cursed my hyper-alert nervous system, and finally crawled into bed.
And then the best thing happened:
Mike took the baby when he woke up.
And I slept.
Until 11 a.m.
I shuffled into the living room in a half-conscious state, only to be greeted by:
And honestly?
I laughed.
Because this is what motherhood looks like.
A little absurd. A little exhausting. Kind of sticky.
But beautiful.
And mine.