I woke up a few days ago at 1:30am.

Insomnia has been my unwelcomed companion these past 2 months. I don’t know if it’s the last stage of pregnancy, the stress of adoption, the insecurities that come with planning to move around the world with three small children, or the fact that my 7 year old also insists on not sleeping. Probably all of the aforementioned combined.

REGARDLESS. I am, now, no stranger to the twilight hours.

Now, here is the question. What do I do in the late hours of the night and wee hours of the morning when my body and brain refuse to shut off? Oh boy, I wish I could say that I use my time wisely and remain a productive “has-her-stuff-together” wife and mom (wait.. did I just say “remain”?…oh well. I’ll leave it), but alas, I do not. I have recently succumb to the midnight habit of criticizing my every move, worrying about every small decision (I may have spent a few hours freaked out about the few ounces of pasteurized brie cheese that I consumed or the sour yogurt that I accidently ingested), and wondering how I could have done or said something better.

I mean, I am raising two children, growing a third, cooking meals, cleaning my home, homeschooling the children, finalizing a single parent international adoption (due to documents and Ukrainian immigration, my husband can only be added after re-adoption in the US), dealing with all of the house matters because only I can speak to the landlord, catching up on my profession so that I can work and help support our family when we arrive in the US, constantly speaking my second and third languages, and dealing with tantrums and difficult behavior while doing my best to remain calm and connect with my screaming child.

Not enough.

Nope. In the midst of all of that, there is a sinking feeling that I am not doing enough. Or at least, not doing it well enough.

When the sun rises, the kids bound downstairs, and finally feel like I can fall back asleep (after being awake for 6 hours), I don’t want to greet them, much less hear about the crazy dream they had, or the midnight poop that was “so big!” and I respond in half hearted, not really listening, slightly aggravated, empty words. Not enough.

When I realize halfway through the afternoon that I never brushed their hair. Or mine. Not enough.

When the laundry remains in the washing machine, on the drying rack, or worse.. dirty in the hamper. Not enough.

When I feed my kids the same soup 3 meals in a row because I didn’t defrost the chicken. Not enough.

When I raise my voice and roll my eyes at my child just trying to figure out life, boundaries, and herself. Not enough.

When I spend the day quite sedentary instead of taking the walks that I know are good for my body and growing baby. Not enough.

When I yell at my husband for not inherently knowing what I need when I need it, even though I didn’t tell him. Not enough.

When I would rather angrily stare at a wall than color with my child that has just made me angry and miraculously “gotten over it” in a matter of seconds. Not enough.

My shortcomings and failures as a wife, mother, friend, and professional make their way into my sleep deprived thoughts and leave me wondering if I am really cut out for this. It’s bothersome, really. Couldn’t I just be ignorant of all I am doing wrong?

But then. Then there are moments. Snippets of the day. Small wins.

A child’s words.

It was two days ago that one of my sweet children shed some perspective on my current situation.

“Mom, you're the best.” She said, completely out of the blue.

I was taken aback. This is the child that I get onto the most. Shouldn’t she resent me? When I asked her why, she answered in sweet simple words.

“You love me so much. And you tell me what’s right and wrong. And you make yummy dinner!”

Oh my sweet sweet child. Since that moment, I have been thinking about and dwelling on her young words of kindness. They propel me forward. She doesn’t care if her hair goes un-brushed. She understands if I am just a little too tired to react in awe at her poop stories. She loves the soup, even the third time around. She’s not judging the pile of laundry. She holds on to the times that I do choose to color alongside her or help her finish a puzzle, or laugh at her silly faces. She knows that when I go to submit documents, they are for her and her sister, so they can take our last name and finally settle with their forever family.

She is oh so much more forgiving and understanding than myself.

It’s in her confidence in me that I am rest assured I am not failing.

This season will end. Then a new one with it’s own challenges will arise. The cycle will repeat until my body fails and I join my Father in Heaven.

So I will get through each day, moment by moment, one way or another. At the end of the day, another day will have passed. And that’s an irrefutable fact. Time doesn’t stop. It’s what we do with it that matters. And if my house isn’t perfect, my kids look like they could use a stylist, my soup reheats too many times, or my reactions are subpar.. that’s not failure. That’s just life.

Thanks, little one. Sometimes a child’s perspective is just what I need.