3:12 am

When the sun is still sleeping and I hear “mama” from down the hall, I can tell you what I’ll find before I open the door.

A sleepy, dough eyed little girl, sitting straight up in bed, needing nothing more than the warm embrace of her mama.

At preschool drop off, Addison takes off with her buddies before I can even finish zipping her jacket. Leaving the park is like a game of tug-o-war with Elliette, who can move her little feet surprisingly fast when she wants to run away from me. I can’t name the last time I’ve used a public restroom without my little escape artists attempting to unlock the door or wiggle their way under the stall door. And a trip to any grandparents’ house always ends in puppy dog eyes asking “can I spend the night?” 

But when it’s 3:12 am and the wind starts rattling the windows, the neighbor hurriedly drags their garbage cans down the lengthy driveway, or the teens down the street race by with their radio cranked up, interrupting the dreams of princess dresses and fairy wings, there’s nothing more than a mama’s safe squeeze and slow, synchronized heart beat to find that comfort to drift off again.

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