lovemakesroom

12:44 AM.
Or at least I think it was 12:44 AM. Honestly, it could’ve been 2:17 or 11:53 or the year 2042 because when you’re sick, half asleep, and suddenly feel a tiny hand yanking on your arm in the darkness like a raccoon trying to break into a cooler, your sense of time completely leaves your body.

I heard the sniffle first. Then the little cry. Then the tugging.

“Shell…”

And because apparently my survival instincts now include responding to tiny emotional support humans at all hours of the night, I pulled FS3 into bed without even opening both eyes. I don’t really remember much after that. At some point I vaguely recall putting him back in his bed. Then somehow he ended up back in ours again later because toddlers operate like tiny boomerangs. You don’t know how they got there. You just accept your fate.

Meanwhile, I’m sick. Again. Which feels rude at this point.

But Wiley? Absolute sweetheart angel human. He knew I felt awful, so he got up with FS3, got him breakfast, got him dressed, got FD6 moving, had her get dressed, got himself ready, AND took FD6 to school so I could get a little more sleep before dragging myself into the land of the living.

Honestly, if that man ever leaves me, I’m going with him.

Then I looked at my phone.

Our daycare provider — who is pregnant with twins and genuinely one of the sweetest humans alive — had messaged saying she was having premature bleeding and had to go to the hospital. Immediate mom panic. I told her to rest and that I hoped everything was okay because truly, she deserves nothing but good things and fully cooked healthy babies.

So with daycare out of commission, I loaded up FS3 for a full workday adventure.

Stuffed animals? Check.
Blankets? Check.
Tiny pillow? Check.
Enough snacks to sustain a small football team? Absolutely.

Because this child? Sweet as can be… until he’s hungry. Then suddenly we’re negotiating with an emotionally unstable WWE fighter in Paw Patrol shoes.

We got to work and honestly? He handled it like a champ for most of the day. We had one major meltdown a few hours in — the kind where you start sweating and mentally calculating whether anyone in HR can technically fire you for a toddler screaming like a feral goat in the office — but overall he did amazing.

We grabbed lunch and brought it back to the office. He watched shows, played quietly, charmed coworkers, and even took a nap curled up with his blanket like the tiny exhausted king he is.

Then I had to wake him up, which honestly feels illegal.

After that, it was time to pick up FD6 and meet with the social worker for the monthly safety and wellness visit at the house. And listen… nobody really prepares you for the mental gymnastics of foster parenting. Every child dynamic changes depending on who’s present.

One child alone? Different vibe.
Two together? Entirely different energy.
Three together? Chaos with snacks.
Add the fourth sibling? We’re basically running a tiny emotionally fueled democracy with absolutely no stable leadership.

Somewhere in there we loaded up Wiley’s bedding for his work trailer since he’s staying overnight, fueled up the car — which honestly should qualify as an extreme sport in this economy because I nearly cry every time I swipe my card — and headed back to the office for another quick stretch before the kids collectively decided they were done cooperating for the day.

So we went home.

Dinner was lasagna because sometimes survival is pasta-based. They chose grape Propel with dinner which somehow felt wildly exciting to them. Then came lotion, pajamas, vitamins, a shower for FD6, bedtime routines, hugs, negotiations for extra hugs, and approximately 47 requests for water after everyone was already tucked in.

And then came the part of the day I struggle with the most:

The evening silence.

Not because it’s peaceful. But because my brain suddenly becomes Times Square.

I could clean.
I could do laundry.
I could finish planting flowers.
I could clean the basement shower from construction dust.
I could organize.
I could make birthday shopping lists for FD6’s party next weekend in Wenatchee.
I could hire help and preserve my sanity.
I could refuse help because surely I can do it all myself like the emotionally unstable pioneer woman I apparently aspire to be.

Or…

I could rest.

Which sounds lovely in theory except the second I lay down lately, I fall asleep holding my Kindle like an elderly Victorian woman succumbing to consumption.

So instead, here I am. Blogging. Sick. Tired. Staring at my phone trying to decide whether productivity or rest wins tonight.

Because there are always nine million things to do.

The lawn needs mowed.
The weeds need pulled.
The flowers need planted.
The laundry reproduces overnight like rabbits.
The lists need made because I am, unfortunately, powered entirely by lists and iced drinks.

And yet somehow in the middle of all this chaos, there’s still so much love here.

Messy, loud, exhausting love.

The kind that shows up at 12:44 AM tugging on your arm.
The kind that gets the kids dressed so you can sleep another hour.
The kind that packs stuffed animals for a workday survival mission.
The kind that keeps showing up over and over again even when everyone’s tired.

So maybe tonight I’ll read my book.
Maybe I’ll scroll TikTok until Wiley gets home from his management meeting.
Maybe I’ll convince myself I’m resting while mentally reorganizing the entire house.

Either way, morning will come fast.

And we’ll get up and do it all over again.