“Is she hungry?”
“Oh my goodness, I yusffed her!” That question alone is enough to throw me into a rage so great it would put the Hulk to shame. I manage to contain it, though. Okay, I do roll my eyes.
The baby continues to show off her lung capacity as she wails, arching her back in my arms. She's not happy being held, but she certainly doesn’t want to be put down. What to do?
“I think it’s just gas,” I say, feeling defeated. I try to remind myself that this won't last—the crying WILL end, and we will know peace again. It just doesn't feel like it right this moment.
“Okay, let me try.” I hand the flailing and wailing fourteen-pound mass to my husband, who takes her to our room, places her on the bed, and begins a course of massages and maneuvers meant to release gas.
The screaming continues, and I figure I should take this opportunity to do anything else. The dishes need to get done. The bathroom could use a cleaning. I haven't vacuumed in... when did I last vacuum? Don't even get me started on mopping.
The list of things to do feels overwhelming, and the thought of starting any one of them with the soundtrack of murder cries in the background doesn’t appeal at all.
I plop myself down on the couch instead, eyes closed, head resting on a pillow.
Motherhood. It's a beautiful thing. Really. It's also exhausting and the one thing that makes you question your sanity so often. And how is it that there are so many mothers in the world, and yet you still feel like the only one?
The exhaustion weighs heavily these days, and there are moments when I’m not sure I can go on. But what’s the alternative? I quite simply don’t have another option, and really, I wouldn’t want another option if it were given to me on a silver platter. This life may be hard, but it’s also an answer to a prayer that I’ve prayed for many years.
Fragments of a Bible verse flit through my mind, and I reach for my Bible on the side table as I try to piece it together. I think it’s in Isaiah. Isaiah forty... something?
After a bit of searching, I am successful. Isaiah 40:29-31.
I read the words slowly, letting them wash over me.
“He gives strength to the weary, and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”
I may not be in dire straits like the Israelites often were in the Old Testament, but boy, I need my strength renewed nonetheless.
I’m thankful for my husband. I don’t know how I would do this without him—even if he does ask questions like “Is she hungry?” at the worst time. I need to remember to tell him that more often. And thank the Lord for him too.
The crying stops, and I can’t decide what’s louder—the crying or the silence.
I don’t have to ponder it too long because a new noise fills the space.
“Hallelujah!” my husband shouts from our room. “Oh man, that stinks!”
I burst into a fit of laughter as I listen to the soundtrack of farts and praise down the hall. My husband walks in carrying the baby, who is as happy as ever.
“Okay, I definitely thought that was a poo, but looks like it was just air. I’ll take it though.”
He sits next to me on the couch, passing the baby. You would never guess the agony she was in just moments before. I’m happy to report she’s babbling and cooing as if nothing ever happened.
“Thank you, Jesus,” I proclaim, and I’m not even joking. These are the kind of things you pray for when you have a three-month-old, apparently.
“And thank you,” I add, turning to the ever-patient man next to me.
He wraps his arm around me as we admire the beautiful girl before us, laughing at the little faces she's making.
“Oh...” “Ohyeah... oh goodness...” “Mhm. There it is.” Our faces contort as we’re assaulted with sounds and smells that shouldn’t possibly be able to come out of someone so small.
“That’s a blowout. For sure,” I say, feeling something warm and soft against my hand supporting her bottom.
“Well, that’s my cue t o . . M y husband hooks his thumb behind him as he slowly backs out of the room.
“Hey!” I call out, a mixture of laughter and despair filling my voice.
“Hey, I got it out of her—now you get it off!” He jogs out of the room before I can throw one of the plush baby toys at him.
“Lord, renew my strength,” I mutter as I walk over to the change table. I laugh at the mess that greets me. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.