Everyone was sick. (Magically not me but doctors will study this mom phenomenon one day)

Not emergency-room sick. Not dramatic sick. Just that low-grade, coughy, fever-adjacent sickness that turns bedtime into a hostage negotiation and guarantees no one sleeps but everyone lies about it.

By 8:30 p.m., I had administered meds, water, prayers, and threats in equal measure. We followed the routine. The whole routine. Pajamas. Teeth brushed. Lights dimmed. Stories read.

Lynnlee lost a tooth earlier that evening and carried it around like a lottery ticket. We did the whole ceremony, wrapping it carefully, placing it under her pillow, reminding her (again) that the Tooth Fairy only comes when kids are asleep.

She nodded. Earnestly. Believably.

Kris tucked her in. Kris and I exchanged the look that says maybe…just maybe we survived tonight.

I went to bed knowing one thing: I was exhausted, but I only had to make it through the Tooth Fairy drop. One quiet mission. In and out. Simple.

Reader, it was not simple.

Justin thought Lynnlee was asleep.

She was not.

At 1:30 a.m., I went in to do Tooth Fairy duties, quiet, calculated, spiritually exhausted, only to be met with wide-open eyes and the kind of excitement that should be illegal after midnight.

Whomp. Whomp.

Cornflake, at least, was being cool. So we watched her for a bit, because apparently reptiles are part of the bedtime routine now.

I stepped out briefly to grab Lynnlee a snack because she “didn’t eat much today,” which is mom code for this will absolutely come back to haunt me.

That’s when Harper woke up.

Alone.

Confused.

Cried just long enough to become fully operational.

By 2:00 a.m., Harper was awake, crying, and ready to seize the day. She had woken up at 6 am that morning and was allowed to fall asleep way too early that night. To be fair…Earlier, I had said to Kris (clearly and calmly)

“Do not let Harper fall asleep early or I’m up all night. I only got three hours of sleep.”

✨ Reader: she fell asleep anyway. ✨

I entered crisis-management mode:

• Juice

• Pellets

• Protein bars

I fed them like I was preparing animals for transport.

While I’m juggling snacks and my remaining will to live, Lynnlee reappears.

With another tooth.

Now she has two missing teeth, which means I’m expected to produce a second dollar at 2 a.m. because fairness matters more than maternal survival.

Harper is now awake for the day.

Not “might fall back asleep.”

Up.

Now here we are.

Tooth Fairy incomplete.

One kid with a fever.

One kid clocked in for morning shift.

And me, running on fumes, juice boxes, and the knowledge that KRIS GOT EVERYONE SICK.

I’m not going to bed.

I’m lying down with Harper and lightly sleeping, if she allows it. like a ghost haunting her own house.

The Tooth Fairy may return tomorrow.

Or she may be legally declared dead.

Survival Tip

When the night collapses and everyone is awake, fed, and breathing stop trying to fix it.

You are not required to:

• complete the magic

• enforce the schedule

• or win motherhood before sunrise

Sometimes survival looks like juice, protein bars, and lying very still so no one notices you’re still conscious.

This is not failure.

This is triage.