night shift

Late in the evening, after the last marathon run of dinner-baths- pajamas-bedtime-cleaning, we start the dishwasher, sweep the kitchen floor, and turn off the lights. Wearily we climb the stairs, pass the children’s rooms, glance one last time at their sleeping cherub faces and fall into bed ourselves.

We’ve worked all day, dressing, cleaning, feeding, comforting, training and caring for four children and we’re exhausted. So it’s with a grateful sigh that we lie back, click off the lights, and slip into sleep. The house gets quiet, the only sound the gentle woosh-woosh of the dishwasher. We each go just over the edge into the beginning of hours of relaxing rest…and somebody starts to wail.

Two tired parents clock in for the night shift.

Every night, as I jerk back awake, there’s a “this can’t be happening” feeling that washes over me. But I know that it can, I know that it is, and so I haul myself back out of bed to fix the problem.

I used to feel like the only person in the world that was awake at those dead, dark hours of the morning. I remember sitting on the couch one night, nursing a fussy baby and watching the moon rise. I sat there from the time it came up behind the mountains until it slipped away out the top of the window, and felt completely alone. There were no lights in any of my neighbors’ houses, no cars on the street. Any sane person would be in bed.

But gradually I began to realize I was not actually alone. A friend up the street would have a baby who was teething. A sister in another state would have a child with pneumonia. They’d be up tonight, pacing the floor, keeping their midnight vigil.

And even in my house it’s not just me. Many mornings I’ll wake up to see the same haggard expression I know is on my face on my husband’s face as well. One of us says, “My baby didn’t sleep all night. Did yours?” We compare notes and realize that between the toddler and the infant, there was a relay race going on all night.

So when I get up at night, to find a pacifier, or quiet a fear, I know now I don’t do it alone. I feel a sort of comforting sense of community with all of you whom I know are up as well. I think of you in the quiet of the early morning hours, dispensing medicine, replacing blankets, nursing a newborn. At 2 a.m. we’re not doing anything so noble as underpinning the lives of future generations, or saving America’s tomorrow. We’re each just silent and determined, working the night shift.