He hasn't been cooperating, of course. He just doesn't like to nap during the day unless it's in my arms. And given that one of my arms is weak, that leaves me with only a single fully functioning arm with which to take care of him and try to get some of my own stuff in.
Obviously, his needs win every time. As they should. But between that and dwindling sleep fore me (several times this week I [rather foolishly, no doubt] sacrificed sleep for writing or art-making), I've been feeling a bit more cranky.
Until this morning.
After even less sleep than usual, Jacob and I were enjoying some post-nursing cuddling. I got to thinking about how Eve was our miracle baby. We'd been told to expect me to be infertile as a result of my battle with disordered eating. And then, unplanned and yet so wanted, Eve came into being against all the odds. A miracle, I called it. Our miracle baby.
And then she died, and we conceived Jacob right away. Meaning that I likely am not (thank you, God) infertile after all, although time will tell for sure. Which, I thought to myself this morning, probably makes Jacob not a miracle baby.
But then I felt his skin soft against my own, my skin that is so calloused by 30 years of fighting for hope in this sometimes hopeless world, and I realized -- he is most definitely a miracle, every inch of him.
The way he came into our lives in the reverberations of disaster . . . the way his every breath heals a bit more of my grief-shattered parts . . the way the slate depths of his eyes seem to be a window into God's own heart -- a miracle, without a doubt, and worth every bit of sacrifice.
I can't believe I doubted it even for a moment.