Some Nights I Feel Like the Rug

Tonight, I am sitting here with a glass of wine.

The frogs are singing outside, the house is finally still, and my old dog is snoring like she worked a full shift today—which, to be fair, she did. Thirteen years of loyal bedtime routines will wear a girl out.

And I just keep thinking about how many parents sit in this same quiet moment… feeling like the rug everyone walked across all evening.

So let me say this first.

If you are the parent people look at and say,
“You should be more strict,”
“Your kids walk all over you,”

Don’t listen.

Not to people who are not living your life.

Not to people who step in for an hour and think they understand your whole day.

Because unless they have done what you are doing—day after day, night after night—they don’t get to measure your motherhood.

nine months.

For nine months I have been doing this largely on my own.

In those nine months:
I moved four times.
I lived between two states.
I helped my parents recover from illness.
I ran their home and mine.
I raised and educated my children.

And my children are not easy children.

They are beautiful, thoughtful, deeply feeling—and they both have ASD. The world asks more of them, and by the time bedtime comes, they have very little left to give.

And still, every night, I show up.

We finally made it here. Back together. A new duty station. A fresh start.

And I thought—foolishly, maybe—

This is it.
This is where it gets easier.
Bedtime will go back to normal.

But the military doesn’t pause for that.

So bedtime is still mine.

And some nights, it feels like I am not standing in my home—I am laid out across the floor, being stepped on from one need to the next.

“Mom, I need you.”
“Mom, I’m hot.”
“Mom, can you fix this?”
“Mom…”

And I go.

Because I know what’s underneath it.

I know the anxiety.
I know the sensory overload.
I know the way their little bodies are trying to settle after holding it together all day.

I know they are not trying to walk on me.

They are trying to find steady ground.

But knowing that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Knowing that doesn’t make me less tired.

There is a kind of motherhood that doesn’t get talked about enough—the kind that is strong in quiet ways. The kind that holds everything together while looking like it’s barely holding on.

The kind where you are both the soft place and the structure.

So if tonight you feel like a rug…

You’re not.

You’re the ground.

And there’s a difference.

A rug gets walked on and forgotten.

The ground holds everything up.

Even when it’s worn.
Even when it’s tired.
Even when no one stops to notice.

And maybe tonight that’s enough.

Even if tomorrow, they call for you again.

I hope if you are struggling tonight that this helps you know that you are not alone in that feeling.