The Ultimate Solution for Soothing My Teething Daughter: Unveiling the Power of Storms for Parents and Parenting

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e’re not getting much sleep these days. Our little girl is going through teething and she always remembers it at around 1am every morning, waking up screaming. We haven’t quite figured out the perfect combination of cuddles and Calpol to break this cycle, so we usually sit with her as she dozes off and wait until her snoring becomes deep enough for us to risk putting her down. Interestingly, as soon as we put her down, it activates some unknown reserve of pure adrenaline in her body, causing her to wake up in even more pain than before.

So, we take turns letting her sleep in our arms, trying to catch whatever bits of broken sleep we can that way. It’s not an ideal situation, but we empathize with her. A few months ago, her bottom left molar, which was as big and as bulky as a Monopoly house, emerged from her gums, and now its counterpart is on its way. I don’t envy her in this journey. That first molar is so ridiculously large that it’s hard not to imagine the horror of it bursting unexpectedly from my own flesh. In none of these imaginary scenarios would getting sleep be a priority.

Currently, she wakes up at 1 or 2am and usually goes back to sleep relatively easily, but her next waking, no matter when it occurs, might keep her up for good. She’s usually crying, but what’s even more peculiar is when she’s wide awake and cheerful, ready to conquer the day in the pitch-black darkness of a London night. There’s something eerie about sitting in a dark room, my eyes adjusting to the dimness just enough to see her large eyes flickering towards me, fully alert and bewildered. Even my jaded heart admits there’s a certain beauty to this. Sometimes, very rarely, a fleeting tranquility descends upon me, and I can fully appreciate the moment—she, in a state of stubborn wakefulness, resting her head on my chest while I drift in and out of consciousness.

All of this led me to be awake and drooling at 3am last Monday morning, holding a defiantly cheerful baby in my arms as we watched an approaching storm assault the wind-whipped trees outside her window. Their leaves were turned inside out, exposing their watery undersides like a sea of tightly sealed envelopes. Then, something stirred in the air. A brief pause followed by the rattling of the window panes as raindrops began to fall. First a mist, then a trickle, and finally a downpour. It was, to quote Terry Pratchett, the kind of rain that is “merely an upright sea with slots in it,” creating the exact ambient noise that can be found in Spotify playlists for insomniacs. Her eyelids trembled, and slowly, so slow that I could hardly believe it, they closed.

And then the thunder began. Not the usual distant, sporadic rumblings, but a constant and rumbling chaos. This was accompanied by bursts of bright white light that lit up the sky like fashion week flashbulbs. Immediately awakened from any lingering hope of sleep, she gripped my finger and smiled, fascinated by the awe-inspiring spectacle of nature. I have to believe that one day I will look back on this memory with fondness. I am far from sleep, but let me hold on to these small dreams.

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