But I don't need to look back too far to know how fortunate I am.
We had a different variety of sleepless nights with Ewan: the sleepless nights and days of surgeries and invasive procedures we weren't sure he would survive. Our sleepless nights were crammed into the sixteen days he lived, and into the seemingly countless weeks and months that followed where the most exquisite grief kept me awake with the distinct and inescapable feeling that my guts were being ripped out.
Even when I'm so tired I can't hold up my own head, that experience puts this one in sharp relief.
Every moment is a gift of divine grace.
Every face she makes. Every yawn. Every diaper I get to change.
Each time I get to dress her.
Every time she cries. Every time she seems hungry, but won't latch at the breast.
Every time she lies in front of the window, talking and pumping her arms and legs.
Every time her nap is too short to allow me one of my own.
Every time I feel like a human milk factory and every time I wish James could feed her, too.
Every time she snuggles on my chest. Every time I wonder how long I will get to enjoy that with her.
Every time I'm tempted to multi-task or clean my house instead of hold her, breathe her in, see her.
Each and every moment is a gift.
