this is a love letter to all the mothers in the Children's Hospital ER at 11:11 pm on a Tuesday night

and also everywhere else

I am writing this on my notes app, from a crowded ER waiting room at Children’s Hospital on a Tuesday night, in a room surrounded by children and their mothers. (ED: 95% of the parents in hospital waiting rooms are mothers, always mothers. Of course they are mothers.)

This one’s for the mothers.

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To the mother holding the head of her wincing son, speaking in Korean to him as he holds back tears —his head looking for a place to recline on a chair without a headrest until her hand intercepts it. Tells him it’s okay in the language every mother understands.

To the mother who does Sudoku with one hand while clutching a green barf bag in the other — in case her daughter in the pink terry robe throws up again.

To the mother trying to calm a screaming toddler who has gone limp trying to escape the hours she has already sat waiting and is now on the run with one shoe on.

To the mothers who cringe because they’ve been there.

To the mothers who judge because they have blocked out their own moments of same.

To the mothers who stand up to intervene so the child doesn’t leave the room — the mothers who know when to help.

To the mother who shares a headset with her teenage son as the two of them watch something on a phone and laugh at the same parts behind blue hospital masks.

To the mother who has created a bed for her child out of two seats and a Christmas blanket decorated in Santa Clauses. Her sweatshirt, a pillow balled up on her thigh.

To the mother with the son in a wheelchair, his shirt up, port protruding from his belly, her face exhausted, smiling but not really as she says excuse me, pushing by a row of legs including mine.

To the mother in her pajamas holding a slowly-melting ice pack wearing sandals that are the exact same as her child’s.

To the mother who rolls up her daughter’s sleeve, replaces one bloodied bandage with a clean one.

To the mother who has been rocking a child in purple pajamas on her lap for the past two hours without stopping.

To the mother who brought so many toys from home including those things I forget the name of, that look like tubes and make cracking sounds when you twist them.

To the mother who has given her phone to her son and is staring blankly at the wall in front of her, arms crossed over her chest, occasionally looking backwards toward the clock.

To the teenage mother who is arguing with someone on the phone — maybe her boyfriend — while bouncing a doughy toddler on a hip that protrudes from low cut jeans.

To the mother trying to nurse her baby while stroking his hair, occasionally pressing his forehead to check for fever.

To the mother studying with a sleeping child against her chest who coughs every few minutes as she readjusts, kisses his forehead, keeps reading her textbook.

To the mother who keeps asking the front desk how much longer because she left the rest of her kids at home alone and she didn’t anticipate a four hour wait.

To the mother still in her work clothes who regrets not changing into something more comfortable knowing she will have to sit in a chair for two more hours. (In a minute she will secretly unbutton the top button of her pants.)

To the mother pacing the room with a double stroller, saying shhhhhhh seemingly to herself as her babies cry in harmony.

To the mother who remembered to bring snacks.

To the mother who forgot to bring snacks.

To the mother who is also sick but is here only for her child.

To the mother buying a water bottle for her daughter from the vending machine, flattening her dollar bill against the wall before feeding it through the machine.

To the mother who has to pee but holds it out of fear that triage will call her child’s name while she’s in the bathroom.

To the mother who is calling in sick to work tomorrow because who else will stay home with her child?

To the mother who had to choose between two daughters in crisis tonight — both for very different reasons — who has been texting one daughter while stroking another daughter’s hair. Who is lucky to have friends who check in knowing this. Sending her funny videos that keep her from bursting into tears because it’s been that kind of day.

To the mother who raised the kind of son who when realizing my daughter left her airpods in the waiting room, held onto them while we were in triage and waited for us to come out so that he could give them back to her.

To the dozens of mothers who will still be here when we drive home at 1am. Mothers who will be up with their other children before dawn to take them to school. Mothers who will not get a single hour of sleep but will still have to wake up and do it all again.

To the mothers who hold up the world for their babies even when the world feels like it’s caving in.

To the mothers whose worlds literally ARE caving in. (To the mothers in Gaza who do not have a waiting room to hold their children in, let alone living children to hold if they did.)

To the mothers in Israel who have also lost children. And the ones who say not in our name.

To the mothers around the world who say not in our name.

To the mothers in Ukraine.

And in Russia.

And South Sudan.

And Syria.

And Iran.

And Afghanistan.

And and and and and…

To the mothers who make blankets out of their jackets so their children can rest. Who say “its okay, baby. I’m not cold” when they’re actually freezing.

To the mothers.

To the mothers.

To the mothers.