healing

The nights are my favorite.

He never cries at night. Instead I wake up to small grunts and snorts- his hungry mouth smacking on his tiny fist, his limbs flailing around in frantic egg-beater fashion. I put on my sweater and scoop him up, then wrap him in blankets against the chill in our dark house. He buries his face in the fabric on my shoulder, searching, and I'm grateful that he's quiet as we pass the door to his big sister's room.

I stumble downstairs, turn on the dim lamp, settle into the couch and get him positioned. We nurse, and his tiny body snuggled against mine and his hungry gulps and swallows make me smile. Then when he is full and sleepy, and his body is limp, I pick him up and lay him on my chest to pat his back. I listen to the purring little sighs he makes with each exhale, and smell the sweet sour milk smell that comes from the many tiny folds in his neck no matter how often I bathe him.

And my soul mends.

With each small sigh and with each whiff of new baby smell the feelings of failure and inadequacy melt away. The wound of infertility that his sister healed is completely invisible now- he's removed even the vestige of a scar. I marvel that he exists, that he is here, that I brought him here. I whisper a prayer of thanks.

He listens to the familiar sound of my heartbeat and falls asleep.

I do too.

But then I wake up and look at the clock, kiss the top of his head and turn out the light.

And we walk upstairs to bed.