So, my last night was interesting again. But hey, fuel for a blogpost at least! If and when you have time, let me know your honest opinion :)
Sometimes, real parenting is just being their furniture
Last night, my son had a high fever. For a while, he was inconsolable.
Eventually, I managed to rock him to sleep on my shoulder.
I sat down in the chair in our bedroom.
But not just any chair. THE chair. The one I spent months hunting down for nights like these.
Wide enough for my frame, space on one side for two small legs to rest, the right armrest, exactly where I need it, so I can support the arm holding a sleeping child, and a few strategically placed pillows complete the setup.
This is where papa sleeps sitting up, holding sick children through the night. Whatever angle they need to breathe, settle, or finally let go.
I have become living furniture— designed for adaptability. Built for rough nights.
I sat there, barely moving, looking at his face.
That soft, peaceful expression that only shows up when a child finally lets go.
The relief I was waiting to see on that angel face.
And I was so deeply grateful and happy that I could just be his furniture.
Devotion is showing up
I love him more than I can articulate.
And this— this— is what devotion actually is:
Giving yourself over to a small human who needs you completely.
No applause or reward. No one sees it.
But your child feels it. They needed you, and you showed up. In whatever form they needed.
If I were to die tomorrow, I think I would be more upset about missing them grow up— missing the chance to be there, to protect, to provide— than I would care about myself being gone.
That surprised me when I first realized it.
But it no longer does.
Because that’s what parenting slowly, quietly does to you.
Somewhere along the way, your priorities quietly rearranged themselves.
It became them. Smelly, cranky, loud, adorable.
Carrying the weight so they don’t have to
The essence of parenthood isn’t defined by the moments we photograph and Instagram.
It’s defined by the ones no one witnesses.
The long, fearful nights of sickness. Silent pleas with a higher power to be allowed to take their suffering onto yourself.
The hours where you’re exhausted beyond reason.
Where your body hurts, where you’re destroyed—but still steady.
You carry whatever suffering you can so they don’t have to.
That’s love, properly understood. Care, freely given.
The exhaustion you carry on these nights is supremely meaningful.
Love often shows up precisely when nothing is rewarded.
Hopefully, you’ll remember these words the next time you’re sitting up with your child through a tough night—and they give you the perspective to carry yourself through.
Not with gritted teeth, but with quiet gratitude that you could bear this burden for them.
Sometimes love doesn’t speak.
It just holds.
