Something happens in the darkness and quiet of night.

As mamas, we’ve already made cereal and spread PB, we’ve wiped noses and behinds, we’ve given time-outs and time-ins. We’ve warmed up our coffee six times, sprayed on dry shampoo, and made our best attempt at tackling the day.

But in the stillness of the night, when my baby boy crawls up next to me, awakened by a cough, I am reminded that my best is enough.

My anxious, overwhleming, extreme child doesn’t seek out the prettiest mom or the skinniest mom. He doesn’t come looking for the mom who has it all together.

Mamas, he woke up not feeling well and he made a beeline for his biggest fan, his most fierce fighter, and his first love.

Friends, he came looking for me.

In my messy bun and day three yoga pants. He came looking for me and in that moment, as I held his little hand and he snuggled up beside me, I was so proud and so happy and so sad all at once.

In that moment I was reminded of how God sees me.

No matter my faults or my failures and how blinding they can be to me, my child sees me for my best parts and he loves me in spite of the funky stuff.

I am his hero in my muffin top and he doesn’t care. He is growing up so fast, mamas.

His hand is now calloused from rock climbing and adventures, and his hair is turning from soft, sweet baby blonde to a rougher and somehow manlier brown.

As we sit here in the late night glow of Netflix and giggling at early 90s Christmas movies, I think of how precious and fleeting these moments are. He squeezes my hand three times–our secret, “I love you,” and I smile.

In my softest, most vulnerable and defeated mama moments, may I always be reminded that my best is enough for this sweet boy of mine and that, my friends, is my great joy.