My youngest child does not sleep through the night. She hasn't since we took her binky away. That was nearly three years ago now. We fought it for a while, but that just resulted in all three of us being purely exhausted every morning. We finally just put her crib mattress next to our bed and told her that if she needed to, she could always come and sleep there. This has saved us a lot of sleep. Some nights she comes in without waking us up. Most nights, I am still awake reading when she comes in. For a long time, I couldn't go to sleep until I knew she was settled. Call it one too many nights of falling asleep only to be woken up ten minutes later and be up for another two hours because sleeping is hard, y'all.
Every once in a while, she has a night terror. Last night was one of these nights. I was in the bathroom when she started to cry out. My husband when to check on her and she flipped out on him. She must have associated him with whatever villian she was fighting in her dream, because she absolutely did not want anything to do with him, even to the point that she refused to go into our room. "I don't want Daddy! I just want my Mom!"
"I am your mom," I would tell her. "I am here. I am here."
After much effort, she finally agreed to drink some water, which is usually what snaps her out of her trance enough to reason with us logically. I got her some water, held her for a while, and when I knew she was capable of thinking, suggest we go back into my room. She fell asleep on the mattress a few minutes later, a peaceful smile on her face.
For a long while afterward, surrounded by the sound of my husband's CPAP machine on one side and her congested sniffles on the other, I thought about those words: "I am here."
My mind went straight to Horton Hears a Who. We talk a lot about Horton, and revere him for caring and listening, but what about the Whos? Sometimes we just want someone to acknowledge that we are here.
We are here.
We are here.
We are here.
When I was a child, I struggled with debilitating anxiety and panic attacks. Nights were always the worst time of day. My parents did what they could, but I recognize their exhaustion now. At the time, I thought they were so mean for not caring that I was dying in the middle of the night. I try to remind myself of those terror-filled nights when I'm being woken up yet again by a little person needing me. "Can I cuddle with you, Mom? Just for a minute?"
I know someday she will grow out of it. I know for sure she's already on her way to growing too big for the crib mattress. But until that day comes, and even after, I will be here.
There is a line in scripture that often comes to my mind; it is about the Savior and how his "arms are stretched out still." I know there are times when I am annoying. I know that I often ask too much of him. I know that there are days when I'm just not what he needs me to be. Regardless, his arms are stretched out still.
"I am here," the Great I Am says.
And he is here, for me. Every day. Every night. When I need him and when I don't recognize that he is the person I am crying out for in my terror.
"I am here," he comforts, and his arms are there, stretched out still.
