Jeffrey starts out each night in a little crib beside us, but he won't go back to sleep in it after his first nursing of the night, (trust me, I've tried...and tried...and tried.) And while co-sleeping was never ever ever my plan, since J was a really awful sleeper from the get-go, (in the hospital, two different nurses remarked something along the lines of "wow, they don't usually fight sleep like this so early," and I knew then that I was in trouble,) I learned that me getting some sleep is more important than my pre-baby principles, and I also have kind of fallen in love with having him in bed with us for most of the night. It's a season of life, and I know it will pass some day. That is a happy thought and a sad thought.
I think part of the reason I'm so willing to co-sleep...so willing to give up my space and nightly energy...is because I remember my time in Ethiopia. I remember the rows of metal cribs and the motherless little babies sleeping alone, night after night. The orphanage staff at Layla did a good job, but they were vastly outnumbered by the babies, and so often when I arrived in the morning some babies were still in their cribs, lying there in soaked, dirty cloth diapers, (I remember that every single baby there had terrible diaper rash,) and I vividly remember the look of surprise on their faces when I would come up to their beds with my arms outstretched. Some of them would come eagerly and immediately. But some would stare at me for several seconds, as if saying "what? What are you here for? Oh, for me? Really??"
It broke my heart then, and it breaks my heart now to remember those faces and to know that there are so many, many motherless babies in the world right this minute who are sleeping in beds alone, and have never known anything else.
Then I look at Jeffrey, curled up beside me, his rabbit tucked under one arm and his hand clutching a chunk of my hair with all his might. He is my baby, and I am so humbled by the gift of being his mother. I don't have to wake up every hour with him in the night, (thank you, growth spurt,) I get to. I don't have to give up all my alone time to be at his constant beck and call, I get to. It's not a chore to be his only source of food and therefore his comforter of choice. (Your time is coming, daddy. I promise.) No, it's a gift. And I'm thankful for it every day. Every night. Even the bad, sleepless nights. They're all worth it.
Jeffrey never looks at me with surprise when I lean over his bed to pick him up. Joy, yes. Excitement, yes. Impatience, yes. Surprise? No. He expects me. He knows I'm his mama, and that I'm coming for him. He's not an orphan.
And neither am I. I have such a kind Father, so loving and sufficient, and yet I am often still surprised when He answers my cries in the dark nights. My surprise isn't because He ever ignores me, but rather because I am often afraid of the magnitude of my unworthiness. But, incredibly, He doesn't look at me and see my unworthiness. He looks at me and sees His Son's robes of righteousness clothing me.
Jeffrey and I. Both so loved. Both so protected. Both given no reason to be surprised when our cries are heard.
We both have so much to be grateful for.
I think part of the reason I'm so willing to co-sleep...so willing to give up my space and nightly energy...is because I remember my time in Ethiopia. I remember the rows of metal cribs and the motherless little babies sleeping alone, night after night. The orphanage staff at Layla did a good job, but they were vastly outnumbered by the babies, and so often when I arrived in the morning some babies were still in their cribs, lying there in soaked, dirty cloth diapers, (I remember that every single baby there had terrible diaper rash,) and I vividly remember the look of surprise on their faces when I would come up to their beds with my arms outstretched. Some of them would come eagerly and immediately. But some would stare at me for several seconds, as if saying "what? What are you here for? Oh, for me? Really??"
It broke my heart then, and it breaks my heart now to remember those faces and to know that there are so many, many motherless babies in the world right this minute who are sleeping in beds alone, and have never known anything else.
Then I look at Jeffrey, curled up beside me, his rabbit tucked under one arm and his hand clutching a chunk of my hair with all his might. He is my baby, and I am so humbled by the gift of being his mother. I don't have to wake up every hour with him in the night, (thank you, growth spurt,) I get to. I don't have to give up all my alone time to be at his constant beck and call, I get to. It's not a chore to be his only source of food and therefore his comforter of choice. (Your time is coming, daddy. I promise.) No, it's a gift. And I'm thankful for it every day. Every night. Even the bad, sleepless nights. They're all worth it.
Jeffrey never looks at me with surprise when I lean over his bed to pick him up. Joy, yes. Excitement, yes. Impatience, yes. Surprise? No. He expects me. He knows I'm his mama, and that I'm coming for him. He's not an orphan.
And neither am I. I have such a kind Father, so loving and sufficient, and yet I am often still surprised when He answers my cries in the dark nights. My surprise isn't because He ever ignores me, but rather because I am often afraid of the magnitude of my unworthiness. But, incredibly, He doesn't look at me and see my unworthiness. He looks at me and sees His Son's robes of righteousness clothing me.
Jeffrey and I. Both so loved. Both so protected. Both given no reason to be surprised when our cries are heard.
We both have so much to be grateful for.
