Gratitude

There are times where this motherhood thing is rough. When Frank is up numerous times at night because he is teething. Nights when it seems just as I am falling to sleep I have to get out of bed again. Nights where rocking him is nearly impossible because he is twenty pounds of ready to party at 2 a.m. And
Then, there are the days where putting him in his crib so I can pee is met with a high pitched screeching that rivals my cats' when they are fighting. Days when I cannot leave his side to even make him a bottle without him crying. Days when naps don't happen so nothing else I have to get done does either. Days that consist of numerous outfit changes for the both of us due to blow outs and spit up. Days that coffee just doesn't cut it because I am physically and emotionally exhausted from not having one second to myself.

Last night, the cat kept me up for two hours scratching at the closet door. Just when the cat settled down, at midnight, Frank woke up. Then, just as my husband got our son settled down again, the cat started scratching at the door again. Son of a B. Frank started to cry again. I was rocking him and cursing the cat in my head. I was struggling to keep my frustration in check because it was almost one in the morning and rocking and a bottle and singing wasn't getting this kid back to sleep. But then, I remembered what I was wearing to bed, my 2010 Walk for Rememberance and Hope t-shirt. The one with the names of my other children. Squirt, Chicken Little, Snowflake, and Rocky. The babies that wouldn't keep me awake in the middle of the night; the babies that I never got to spend hours rocking to sleep. And the frustration and exhaustion faded; and all I could be was so damn grateful for my child that lived.