I stay up late every night, even though I’m exhausted.
Even though the sensible option would be to get an early night.
Even though I regret it every morning.
And I have my reasons.
They are logical to me,
Despite seeming illogical to others.
I stay up late every night because I haven’t had a moment to myself since my children woke.
Because my hands have been juggling their needs, and my mind has been in a constant state of fast forward.
Because large parts of my time spent with my beautiful children, is dictated by their wants and needs rather than my own.
And I still have needs.
In fact, I have more since becoming a mother.
I’ve never needed so much in my entire life.
So to meet those needs, I need to make time.
But time isn’t always easy to find.
The only option is often late at night, when the children are in bed, and I’m not needed by
So I grab it with both hands to watch my own show, rather than a cartoon.
To admire the cleanish house, rather than a site of messy play.
To eat a treat in peace, rather than have to give away most of it to grabby little hands.
To listen to music.
To do what fills my own cup.
And I always enjoy this time once I stop watching the clock.
When I stop calculating when I’ll next be up.
When I stop thinking about what my lateness will mean for tomorrow.
Because I’m back in touch with myself.
With my needs.
With my own time.
And that’s a very real need,
Just as sleep is.
And ironically, meeting that need is what fuels me to keep going,
Even if I am more tired the next day.