Why a 3AM Feed Reading The Runaway Bunny Hit Me Harder Than Any Parenting Book
The lamp on my bedside table throws a dim triangle of light across the glider. It’s 3:17 AM. My six-week-old daughter has her mouth latched on, eyes half closed, and I’m using the free hand to hold a worn board book above her. Not to read to her—she’s too young for that—but because I’m exhausted, and reading the same paragraphs over and over has become a weird comfort.
The book is The Runaway Bunny. My mother read it to me. I found it in a box of my old things last week, and it’s been sitting on the nursery shelf ever since.
I turn a page. The little bunny tells his mother he’s going to run away and become a fish. She says she’ll become a fisherman and fish for him. Then he says he’ll become a bird and fly away from her. And she says:
“If you become a bird and fly away from me,” said his mother, “I will become a tree that you can come home to.”
My eyes stop moving. The baby keeps nursing. This is an uncalled for gut punch at 3AM.
I don’t know exactly why that line landed like a fist in my chest. It’s not even dramatic. But the image of a tree—rooted, patient, always there—is the first thing I feel like I actually understand about being a parent. Not the chasing, not the fishing. The tree.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been living in a fog of feeding schedules and diaper changes and the surreal of days that blur into each other. I’m on autopilot. Then this old book reminds me that the tiny creature on my chest is going to fly. She’s going to become a bird, a fish, a rock on a mountaintop, whatever metaphor her own future writes. And my job is to become the thing she returns to.
I look down at her. The whorl of hair on her head, the scratch of her tiny fingernails on my shirt. Her lips, still moving even in sleep. I’m reading a toddler book to a newborn at 3AM, and it’s somehow the most profound thing I’ve encountered since she was born.
I keep reading to the bunny’s next plans. A sailboat, and the mother becomes a wind to blow him home. A trapeze artist, and she walks the tightrope behind him. It’s a book about a parent who never gives up, who transforms into whatever the child needs while still holding a steady presence. Every time the bunny imagines a new escape, the mother comes back with a similarly creative way to stay close. She doesn’t get angry. She doesn’t try to make him feel guilty. She just shifts into a new form, quietly, and keeps her eyes on him.
That’s what made me think of the term “secure base.” I remember it from the child development courses I took, and again in a parenting article I skimmed before she was born. A secure base is the adult a child returns to for reassurance before venturing off again. The mother in The Runaway Bunny is the purest illustration of that idea. She doesn’t block the journey. She adapts. She makes herself available without making her affection conditional on him staying close.
When that base feels solid, kids wander farther and try harder things. They learn without their brains half-spent on wondering whether the safety net is still there. When it’s shaky, they hover or cling, using all their energy on anxiety instead of curiosity. I’ve seen it happen in classrooms, too. A student who looks over at the teacher every few seconds isn’t focusing on their math worksheet; they’re waiting for reassurance. The teacher who gives a quick nod or a small smile lets them get back to work. But the teacher who’s always moving around the room can accidentally become unpredictable, leaving that student uncertain about where home is.
I remember a kid from my student teaching placement who struggled with every new assignment. He’d start a worksheet, glance at me, then put his head down. My instinct was to rush over and offer help, but that made him more anxious—my moving felt like evidence that the task was dangerous. My supervising teacher told me to stay at my desk and just say his name calmly. He looked up, I nodded, and he tried the next problem. It wasn’t academic support. It was the knowledge that I wasn’t leaving.
For a newborn, my quiet hand on her chest before I pick her up might be that same nod. It’s a tiny, repeatable signal: you’re okay, I’m here, I’ve got you. I’ve read that babies as young as this can start to anticipate routines, and I figure it’s not about the choreography but about the tone. So for the past few nights, I’ve been trying to slow down my own movements. Instead of leaping out of bed when she snuffles, I wait one breath. I put my hand on her belly and say something boring and steady—“There you are, okay, here we go”—before I lift her. It’s not magic. But it’s a practice, a way of telling myself that I don’t have to be frantic to be present.
The mother bunny also models something subtle: she doesn’t take her child’s running away personally. When he says, “I will become a bird and fly away from you,” she doesn’t respond with hurt or anger. She simply moves to a nearby tree. That’s a hard lesson for any parent or teacher. Children test distance, boundaries, and the strength of their relationship by pushing away. The temptation is to say something like “Fine, go ahead” or to chase after them. The tree response is quieter: “I’m here either way.” It communicates that love and safety don’t depend on the child behaving a certain way.
I think about my daughter older. Her first real “no,” her walking away at the park, her first time riding a bike without training wheels. The phrase “I’ll be a tree” might be the most effective script for those moments. Not because I’m actually going to stand outside with my arms out. But because my response can be simple, non-anxious, and steady. She might not hear those exact words, but she’ll feel the equivalent of a hand on her chest before pickup.
Maybe that’s enough for now. She finishes feeding and unlatches. Her mouth is slack, her face relaxed. I shift her to my shoulder and pat her back. She smells like milk and baby sweat and clean laundry. The book is still open on the armrest.
I haven’t figured out how to fully grow into that kind of tree. My sleep-deprived brain still startles at every gust of wind. I still google “why is my baby grunting” at 2AM. But I notice she calms faster when I touch her arm before picking her up. That’s something. It’s not a guarantee she’ll always have an easy time leaving my shadow, but it’s a start. A tree doesn’t have to know the whole forest; it just has to hold its square of ground.
I close the book and lay her in the bassinet. For now, the wind can wait.
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