Welcome to my reflections from the floor beside the crib including lullabies, prayers, and midnight tears.
Waking up to screams for “Mom” in the middle of the night has become a rhythm I didn’t expect—not the way it pulls at my heartstrings. I wonder what woke him. Was it fear? Sadness? Confusion? The need for comfort he can’t yet name? The moment I lift him up, he melts into my shoulder or chest like it’s exactly where he needs to be in that moment.
Sometimes I lay on the floor beside the crib just to reassure. Other times, I’m up and down, rocking, whispering, praying. Some nights I bounce between the two of them—one crying while I tend to the other. I always try to help the one with the most immediate needs first, but it never feels good to leave one waiting. That’s the part that stings the most some nights—the guilt of needing to be two places at once. That and the lack of sleep.
The longer I sit there in the dim glow of the nightlight or the dark of the room, the more my mind starts to wander. Reflecting on the day. Praying over the kids, the case, everyone involved. Thinking about what’s ahead. Sometimes those thoughts spiral into anxious ones—especially as I mentally list everything I still need to get done. But sometimes, I close my eyes too. Sometimes I nod off right there on the floor or chair.
It’s exhausting. Getting up over and over. Not knowing exactly what they need. Worrying how it’ll look when little one gets older—will he wake more too? But I keep reminding myself to stay present. To take one night at a time.
Sometimes it takes 30 minutes to get them down. Sometimes two hours. Sometimes longer. Sometimes it’s one crying while I’m trying to help the other fall asleep. But then there’s the groggy lift of a little head just to find my face. There’s the peace that washes over them as I hum a lullaby or whisper a prayer. There’s the moment he clasps his hands when I say, “let’s pray”—not because I taught him explicitly, but because he’s been watching.
They are always watching. Listening. Learning.
And in those moments, I remember—my words, my tone, my patience (or lack of it) are shaping something real. Their little brains are making connections. Every response buildings something: safety or fear. Trust or doubt. Calm or chaos. My job is to help those neurons wire toward peace and security.
And when I feel pulled toward my to-do list or the pile of things I haven’t touched, I try to remember this: This is the most important thing I will do today. Right here. Holding them. Singing. Praying. Sitting in the dark, letting them know they’re not alone.
Someone else is missing this. But I’m not. And I don’t want to rush through it—even when I’m tired, even when I’m stretched thin.
These moments are fleeting. And I want to be found faithful in them.
Some of the links in this post are affiliate links, which means I may earn a small commission if you purchase through them—at no extra cost to you. I only share what I truly use and love!