They Say It in Their Sleep💤

There’s something about the middle of the night that turns my kids into tiny, half-dreaming poets.

It always happens when the house is finally quiet. No toys on the floor crunching under my feet. No snack negotiations. No “Mom, watch this” from the other room. Just darkness, a hum of the fan, and the illusion that I might actually sleep.

And then—

“I wuv you, Mom.”

Mumbled. Soft. Slurred. Like their dreams briefly remembered I exist.

Sometimes it’s barely audible, the kind of sound you’d miss if you weren’t already wide awake for no reason. Other times, it’s clearer, spoken with the seriousness of a tiny human making an important announcement to the universe.

And then there’s my middle child.

He doesn’t mumble.

He declares.

“I LOVE YOU, MOM!”

No warning. No build-up. Just a full-volume proclamation delivered from the depths of REM sleep, as if his dreams demanded emotional honesty immediately. It startles me every time. My heart races. I sit up. I wonder if he needs me.

Nope.

He rolls over. Peace restored. Message delivered.

I don’t know what they’re dreaming about when it happens. Maybe I’m a character in their dream adventures. Maybe I saved them from a dragon. Maybe I just handed them a snack. Honestly, snacks seem more likely.

But there’s something so pure about love that escapes without effort. Not prompted. Not asked for. Not earned by a good day or perfect parenting moment.

Just love… leaking out.

Daytime love looks different. It’s louder. Messier. Sometimes wrapped in attitude. Sometimes followed by “but I wanted the blue cup.” Daytime love argues. Daytime love tests boundaries.

But nighttime love?

Nighttime love is unfiltered.

It’s sleepy honesty. It’s a tiny voice reminding me—without knowing it—that even on the days I feel stretched thin, unseen, or unsure, I am deeply woven into their sense of safety.

Even when they’re not awake…
they remember to love me.

And honestly?

That might be the sweetest compliment I’ll ever get. 💤

💛A quiet hooray to the love our children carry so deeply, it finds its way out—even while they’re dreaming.