Even though we do this routine every time you need to nurse, at 3 a.m., it is just you and me.
As our days are filled with loud noises of make-believe and singing from your two older siblings, the night feeds bring a calm connection because at 3 a.m., it is just you and me.
I soak them up as I can hear every lip pucker and smack along with your sleep coos because at 3 a.m., it is just you and me.
I’m in the moment and I’m in my body more than I have been all day as I feel the comforting weight of your growing two-month-old self because at 3 a.m., it is just you and me.
In the dark, I see your big eyes looking at me, and I feel the massive responsibility of being the one you will look up to because at 3 a.m., it is just you and me.
In the quiet, I can hear only the tick-tock of the clock and your soft and heavy breaths against my neck . . . at 3 a.m., it is just you and me.
I pray hard to God that I was enough for you today, that I will be enough for you tomorrow, and into the future. Sometimes a silent tear falls when all I feel is I have already fallen short because at 3 a.m., it is just you and me.
But then in that moment of feeling less than . . .
I realize my chin fits perfectly above your nose and on your forehead.
I realize the nook of my left shoulder is your favorite spot to nestle.
I realize we were cut from the same cloth, made for one another because at 3 a.m., it isn’t just you and me.
It’s you, me, and God meeting us where we are—a sweet baby and a weary tried momma who is just always trying her best.
God meets us right there in the dark of the night while we rock away in the chair and I’m pat your back.
The grace is given, and I can sigh and let go of the less-than feeling, knowing I’m blessed to have been entrusted to be your mom.
Because at 3 a.m., time stands still.
The world’s big problems fade far away.
You lie in my arms, and I’m incredibly grateful for our late-night moments.