The mom you are at night is often not the mom you are in the morning.
It is midnight, and here I am, reminiscing about the day that was.
Today, as a mother, I dealt with everything that came my way.
For the past few days, all three of my kids have been home because they have been sick with hand, foot and mouth disease. And three children at home means three times the chaos, three times the noise, three times the mess—and somehow, three times the cuteness too.
My eldest is completely in love with her little brother. She dotes on him, fusses over him and watches him like a tiny second mother. She is only five, but the way she handles him—with such care and gentleness—sometimes amazes me.
Then comes my second.
She is the exact opposite.
Her love is physical.
She is four, and when she loves you, she loves you. She wants to squish him, kiss him, hug him and practically crush him with affection. And the little fellow, understandably, gets quite annoyed. Eventually, he pushes her away when she gets a little too touchy.
And then there is my youngest—the sweetest little distraction in the middle of all this madness.
One smile from him is enough to wipe away a surprising amount of tiredness.
Since the kids were feeling better today, the day was full of naughtiness, screaming, fighting, laughing and absolutely no concept of personal space.
I think half my day was spent either acting as a judge or a playmate.
“Who did it first?”
“Give that back.”
“Don’t touch your brother like that.”
“Stop fighting.”
“Come here.”
“Be gentle.”
“Okay, fine. Let’s play.”
And somewhere between breaking up fights, answering a hundred questions, feeding everyone, cleaning up after everyone and trying to keep the baby from being lovingly crushed by his sisters, the day disappeared.
By evening, I was exhausted.
Not the cute kind of tired.
The kind where your body is still moving because it has no choice, but your brain has already clocked out.
And, if I’m being completely honest, I wasn’t always the patient mother today.
There were moments when I raised my voice.
Moments when I thought, How many times do I have to say the same thing?
Moments when I wanted five minutes of silence so badly that even the thought of someone calling “Mumma” one more time felt unbearable.
And then came bedtime.
What should be a simple process somehow turns into a marathon.
One needs water.
One needs another story.
Someone needs to pee.
Someone suddenly remembers something extremely important.
Someone wants another hug.
Someone is hungry.
Someone is not sleepy.
And just when you think you have finally got everyone settled, you hear a little voice from the darkness.
“Mumma…”
Eventually, though, the house becomes quiet.
The children are asleep.
The toys are still scattered around the house, the dishes aren’t magically washed, and tomorrow will bring its own version of chaos.
But for the first time all day, there is silence.
And somehow, after all that chaos, after what feels like a marathon just to get three children to sleep, there is a strange kind of satisfaction in finally watching them lie there peacefully.
They sleep as though nothing in the world matters.
No fights.
No screams.
No “Mumma!” every thirty seconds.
Just three little bodies, completely surrendered to sleep.
And you watch them.
Sometimes you smile.
Sometimes you wonder how these tiny people can cause so much chaos and still make your heart feel so full.
There is something therapeutic about watching your children sleep.
Maybe because, for a few minutes, you can finally see them without all the noise that comes with motherhood.
You see their little faces.
Their tiny hands.
The way they curl up in their sleep.
And you remember that underneath all the screaming, fighting, mess and madness, they are still just your babies.
Then comes the shower.
That hot water hitting your tired skin somehow wakes you up again.
For those few precious minutes, you are no longer the referee, the cook, the cleaner, the entertainer, the nurse, the teacher or the mother who has been called a hundred times.
You are just… you.
And in that quiet, you start thinking.
What could I have done better today?
Why did I lose my patience there?
Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up earlier.
Maybe I’ll get more done.
Maybe I’ll spend less time on my phone.
Maybe I’ll play with them more.
Maybe I’ll lose my temper less.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
You make little promises to yourself.
Things you will do.
Things you won’t do.
Things you will change.
And somehow, somewhere between those thoughts, the exhaustion catches up with you.
You fall asleep.
And then morning comes.
And there you are again.
Same house.
Same children.
Same toys on the floor.
Same laundry.
Same little voices calling, “Mumma!”
Same beautiful chaos.
And somehow, you begin again.
Because that is motherhood, isn’t it?
You end one day wondering how you survived it…
and wake up the next morning ready to live it all over again.
Maybe the mother you are at midnight is not the mother you are in the morning.
At midnight, you are reflective.
You replay the day.
You notice your mistakes.
You make promises.
You question yourself.
But in the morning, you don’t remember half of those promises.
You just hear those little feet.
You see those little faces.
And you get up.
Again.
Not because you have figured motherhood out.
Not because you suddenly have more patience.
Not because tomorrow is guaranteed to be more productive.
But because they are yours.
And because, somehow, every morning gives you another chance to try again.
Maybe that is enough.