The house is dark. The clock reads 12:13 a.m. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles low like the opening notes of a horror movie soundtrack. I know exactly what’s about to happen. Did I wake up to this rumbling of what I knew was about to be an all-nighter of reassuring my children that the house won’t blow away….no. I was scrolling my phone, aimlessly, like I had 99 problems but children weren’t one of them.

One flash of lightning later, the stampede begins. Footsteps pound down the hallway, doors slam open, and suddenly my bed has two extra occupants: a tangle of knees, elbows, and security blankets. The 7-year-old is convinced the lightning will zap her stuffed animals and take our house down. The 5-year-old is asking me for a scientific explanation about electricity—loudly—while also wedging himself under my arm. The 2-year-old is completely and utterly passed out in his crib, with the sound machine cranked to 60….lucky bastard.

I attempt soothing reassurances, but another crash of thunder cuts me off, and now everyone is talking at once. Someone needs a drink of water. Someone else is “definitely hungry” because apparently thunderstorms require snacks. And of course, the dogs have decided to join us, trembling and drooling like an unpaid extra in the chaos.

By the time the storm passes, my once cozy bed looks like the aftermath of a slumber party in a wind tunnel. The kids are finally asleep—sprawled sideways, taking up every inch of space. I’m balancing on the 4-inch edge of the mattress, wondering if coffee can be administered via IV.

But here’s the thing: as exhausting as it is, there’s something about these stormy nights that sticks in my heart. The way they run to me for safety. The little arms that wrap tight when thunder booms. The whispered “Don’t worry, Mama” from the oldest, like she’s protecting me too.

The storms don’t last forever. Neither will the nights they need me like this.

So I hold on tight—lightning, thunder, and all.