And I don't mean that in the irreverent "OMG!" sort of way, but rather a prayerful, on-my-knees sort of way.
It's been nearly three weeks since Truitt was born. I haven't had a nap since the Tuesday after I came home, which would be...let's see...precisely ten days ago. Do you realize what ten days with no nap feels like when your child does not sleep at night? He alternately smiles (and I am thoroughly convinced it is not gas, but a precocious sense of the absurd), coos, fusses, screams, guzzles milk, poops, pees, blinks, watches CMT, sticks his hand down my shirt to grope me, and pees or poops some more, necessitating another diaper change. This is usually around the time he falls asleep, naturally. All of this generally occurs over the course of a two hour span of time, two to three times per night.
I can't nap during the day because there's just too much to do--laundry, making bottles, picking up yesterday's mess, making supper--all of this to take care of the other members of our family and just to keep myself sane with some semblance of order, honestly. And to keep it real, Truitt really doesn't sleep all that much during the day, either.
I am coming to the realization that I was pretty spoiled with Autumn and Lawson as infants. They were what I'd term "low-maintenance." They'd be finished with a bottle within ten or fifteen minutes and you could lay them down in the crib, where they'd drift sweetly off to sleep for another five or six blissful hours. Not so with Truitt, this child of my heart. He clings to contact, falling asleep in my arms and jerking to instant alert upon being laid in the crib, demanding that I spend just a little more time holding him, even as my back aches, and my arms feel like spaghetti, and my eyes are heavy with three a.m. grit. I almost wonder if the urgency of his need isn't linked somehow to the power of my own longing for him all those months ago.
I know God is smiling at me, full of gentle good-humor when I feel like screaming in the middle of the night, "Was it really necessary for you to fill your britches right then? Couldn't you save it for, say, the five a.m feeding?" He's smiling, and in the face and form of that wriggling baby is the knowledge sent: this too shall pass. So enjoy it.