Finding Forty

When motherhood gets messy, love still shows up—even if it’s not in the ways you imagined.

Last night was one of those nights.

The kind where sleep feels like a stranger, and exhaustion settles deep in your bones.

Where my chosen tones and words—sharp and frayed—leave behind regret.

Where my actions aren’t the ones I want to remember, much less repeat.

It was a night of toddler rage.

Cookies and Elmo at midnight—because why not?

“You want it? You got it. Just calm down.”

Was I spoiling him?

Or was I showing him what unconditional love looks like, even at 2 a.m.?

He hit himself in the head. Screamed.

Pain I couldn’t relieve.

I held his ears between my palms, a small gesture to show I understood.

He settled for a moment.

Then Advil.

Then louder screams.

And while I tried to comfort one child, the other—still nestled inside me—took blow after blow from tiny, panicked feet.

My swollen belly bore it all.

I peed my pants.

Not from laughter.

Not from surprise.

Just from sheer overwhelm and the strain of it all.

And I cried out—but only in my mind.

Because there was no time to fall apart.

My husband holds me tight, tells me it will be alright.

Just kidding. I’m dreaming.

We’re too tired for niceties.

Instead, he helped me swap my panties for something clean and dry

while giving a countdown of how many hours we might still plausibly sleep.

That’s love too, I think.

Not flowers. Not poetry.

But hands that help you stand in the mess.

The air felt thick with confusion.

Each of us grasping for control.

Each of us desperate to feel safe.

This is the part of motherhood people don’t post.

The midnight meltdowns.

The decisions that blur the line between boundaries and survival.

The shame, the pee, the guilt, the love.

It’s not picture perfect.

It’s not even passable some nights.

But it’s real.

And I’m still here.

Still showing up.

Still holding him through the storm.

Still holding me through it, too.

Looking forward to the day we hold each other again.