A good reason for my sleepless nights.

I have a motherhood confession. There is a child (or two or three) sleeping in my bed more nights than not.

With four total, and all of them still relatively young enough to wake up in the middle of the night, sick or scared or wet or thirsty or just alone, it’s a nightly event that at least one and sometimes more pads into my room, holding a blanket or a stuffed something that has seen better days. I roll over and look at the clock, and inevitably there’s a moment when my stomach sinks at the maths of how much more sleep I just might get if I