In the middle of the night

3:58am. Little R is stirring in his bassinett. Although it’s completely dark in the room, I can picture him just by his noise – straining against the confines of his cotton swaddle, head moving from side to side, legs kicking out. Yep, I’ll have to get up and feed him this time, no getting out of it. He was fussing earlier in the night, about 1-something am. I didn’t get up then, he must have settled back down. Have I gone back to sleep since then? I can’t be sure, I don’t have that feeling of waking up from sleep. Perhaps I’ve been awake this whole time?

I turn the light on, and yes, one of his arms is out of his swaddle, flapping about uncontrollably. His eyes search the ceiling, until my face comes in to view, and for a moment when he spots me, he’s still. Then, I can see recognition in his eyes, and he smiles up at me. I smile back at him. “Hi there, little man“. Even though it’s the middle of the night, I’m happy to see him.

As we go about our feed-change-feed routine every night, quietly and calmly, I’m always amazed and relieved at how easy and enjoyable it is for both of us. Thankfully, so different to the last time. I didn’t know that babyhood could be like this. I’m so grateful to be experiencing this version of it. I’m content and peaceful, as I look down at Little R’s perfect face and stroke his whisper-soft hair while he feeds, and I try to memorise this beautiful moment for all time so I can always return. I know these moments of exclusive togetherness in the still and silence of the night will be gone someday soon, and while I might be appreciative of the extra sleep, I’ll miss them all the same.

He feeds, cradled warm against my tummy with a hand gripping my pyjama collar, his only sound the tiny glug-glug-glug of his drinking. The bedside lamp softly lights the room with a warm, dreamy ambience, and next to my chair the heating vent in the floor pumps out lovely hot air, drifting past my face. We are cosy inside against the freezing conditions on the other side of the wall.

I look up through a gap in the wooden slat blinds covering the window next to me, and I see through it a half-moon in an otherwise-blank sky. I think about all the sleeping people in my street, my suburb, my city, and I think about all the other Mums who are awake with their babes at this moment too. I know some of them will be feeling just as content and blissful as I am now. And I know others will be struggling, crying, screaming, not knowing what to do next or whether they’ll ever feel like a good mother, as I did once before. My heart goes out to all of them and I wish them strength and peace. Isolated under our own roofs, yet united in our purpose, under the watchful glow of a half-moon.


Linking up with The Weekend Rewind at Maxabella Loves


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