The cries pelt through he night like a thunder storm. I rise on auto-pilot and race towards my daughter’s bedroom. I am met at the door by my youngest that is waking up from a nightmare of sorts. I scoop her up and unlock the safety gate to go downstairs so the rest of the house does not wake up.
I go to our usual spot on the main floor, the brown Lazy boy rocking chair. I start rocking and rocking. As my brain begins to wake-up the emotions start to bubble in my heart. It has been five years of overnight duty that I have done. I did it for many reasons, not to mention that my girls needed me. It was a feeling I all too well shared with them. I am thirty-eight – years old and I still want my mommy. Only, my mommy has been passed for some time. I am still here.
The only light that is illuminating is from the kitchen a few feet away. I look around at the oh so familiar sights. Many nights I have stared at the walls thinking, dreaming and mostly, feeling helpless. I don’t know what else to do for my children when they wake with such trauma. All I know is to hug them, cuddle them and to soothe them.
The tears start to fall from my face as I realize that it is three o-clock in the wee hours. I will have no hope to sleep before my oldest daughter and husband wake up and come down for breakfast. It is no wonder why I am grumpy a lot, if not all the time. I miss sleep.
My three-year-old hugs my neck tight, lets out a sigh and nestles her sweet head in the crook of my shoulder. Maybe I am not helpless after all. She starts to softly snore and then goes into a full train engine sound. While she may not remember the nights, I will. I was her rescuer. Both my daughters know that I am here, always.