What I Learned Spending the Night in Hospital With My Child

Today has been one of those not-so-fun times...

We started the day with joy – celebrating my eldest son’s birthday. He and his friends had a ball at the party, and I found myself pausing to appreciate how lucky we are to be surrounded by such lovely parents and children.

But then the day took a turn.

After we got home, my younger son – who had a little cough – began to breathe more and more irregularly. We were getting ready to drive to the hospital when his breathing became noticeably worse. We made a quick decision and called an ambulance. He was in moderate respiratory distress.

My mind went into overdrive. Surely it’s not that bad... then What if he stops breathing? But I quickly realised I needed to be in my best state of mind for him. I couldn’t spiral.

I don’t like it. I don’t want it. But it is what it is.
I repeated that phrase to myself for the next six hours in Resuscitation A&E.

Thankfully, the doctors stabilised his breathing with oxygen and medication. He was a trooper through it all, barely complaining. As he perked up and started chatting with the hospital staff, I knew he was on the mend.

We were moved to a ward. He drifted off to sleep, and I tried to follow the midwife wisdom I’d received years ago: Sleep when your child sleeps. I was exhausted. But each time I drifted off, the sharp beeping of medical machinery cut through the silence. I was on my second night of little sleep.

Frustration crept in.
Why me? Why him? Why now?
I could feel the tension in my shoulders and jaw. And then I noticed something... now I was frustrated about being frustrated. I was spiralling again.

That’s when his oxygen levels dropped.

He hated the mask and kept pulling it off. Nurses quickly came in to tape a nasal cannula to his nose. Woken from deep sleep, he screamed:
“I don’t want this! I don’t like it! Get it off!”

They worked fast and left, asking me to lie beside him and make sure the cannula stayed in place.
He screamed, kicked, fought, screamed more, hit, and screamed again. And I held him. Gently but firmly.

And then I had a moment of clarity.
This is why I’m here.

I looked into his eyes and said calmly,
“My job is to protect you and keep you healthy and safe. I know you don’t like this (pointing to the cannula), but it’s helping you feel better, and it’s staying in.”

He kept resisting for a few more minutes. But I held the boundary – calmly, lovingly. And eventually, he began to settle.

Then I shifted:
“I saw how brave you were when the nurses came. You were so brave.”

He calmed. His body softened. And he drifted off to sleep, whispering,
“I don’t want it, mamma…”

My heart tugged. But I knew I’d done the right thing.

Now, as I sit beside him – breathing peacefully, oxygen doing its job – I feel the full weight and beauty of being his mum. My heart swells. My eyes fill with tears.

This is the joy of motherhood.

Being there for the birthday parties.
Being there for the midnight hospital runs.
Being there when they scream, cry, and cling.
Being there... in all of it.

This is my privilege. And even in the hard moments, it’s a joy.

Parenting can stretch your heart in every direction – joy, fear, pride, exhaustion... If you're navigating intense moments with your child and want to feel steadier and more supported, you're not alone. I’m here to walk beside you. Reach out and connect with me here – I’d love to support you.