These past few nights have been rough, short sleeps punctuated by tiny cries from a tiny, sick little lady. We fall back asleep intertwined, with a little toddler body sleeping soundly strewn across mine and I am weary.
So physically exhausted and wmitionly tried, hurting on behalf of my sick baby, sicker than she’s ever been in her short life.
And I think about the woman I was before I was a mother, whose only sickness of concern was her own, whose sleeping (and eating, and overall being) came on her own terms. I remember her a little fondly and a little knowingly, the way you think of someone younger who has still has a bit of naïveté tucked neatly under her belt.
It’s not that we need to be mothers to mature, but it’s one of the many experiences in life that grows you quickly if you let it. This tiny one needs me and doesn’t understand her body’s revolt. The shocking fact that I’m in charge feels like a surreal slap–reality crashing into me as I rub my baby’s back and coo soothingly that “this will pass.”
And maybe I could remember the woman I was before with a little envy, too. There are days like that, if I’m being honest. She who was free and untethered, who slept when she wanted and did what she chose.
Instead, I am choosing now to grow, to pour into another life, and make this less about me. I know another tiny lady who will grow better because of this choice.
And I’m praying for grace and wisdom as we grow, she and I, realizing I have less of those traits than the woman I was thought, but chasing after them anyway.
And here we are.