There used to be a name for days in which at least one member of our household cried. We called them bad days.
Now we call them normal days.
There's a new kind of day now. They are the days where the baby wakes up choking on his own congestion and we pin down all four of his flailing limbs and suck the snot out with a bulb syringe.
The days when dad barely makes it two steps in the door before the baby is thrust into his arms and the wife is clinging to his neck.
These are the broken days. The exhausting days. The fridge-is-empty-because-no-way-was-mom-going-to-wake-baby-up-for-grocery-shopping days.
We have the stereotypical romantic days too, holding baby in the rocking chair as he gazes up adoringly. Plump baby hands grasping fingers. Sloppy baby kisses on the cheek. Waking up to baby coos and gurgles (dear manufacturers, why is that not a programmed alarm feature?)
But I've come to realize:
That the easy days are a manifestation of the love I build up on the broken days.
I don't choose to love him when he nestles secure in my arms. My love for him isn't growing. I'm simply feeling.
I choose to love him when I'm siphoning the snot out of his nose at two in the morning. And believe me, it's not a feeling. It's a cold, hard reality.
I love him, and it is hard. I love him, and sometimes I wish it wasn't quite so much so I could give away the awful responsibility of a mother's love.
I think I love him most on the days when I'm so broken I'm just not sure how I'm going to make it through the day as his mommy. Let alone four more kids. [or just one more. At some point impossibility has no degrees]
Someday, he'll be an adult holding his newborn son for the first time and I will reminiscence and tell him how much I loved his own little baby self. And he will think I loved rocking him, holding him, tickling him.
He will be right, of course.
But he won't realize that in my mind, I'm thinking of the baby whose nose was always running and whose little legs were simply too skinny to create a tight diaper seal. I don't love him in spite of the broken days. I love him because of them. Because they force my love to grow enough to overcome, sacrifice, withstand.
The broken days cannot be separated from the lovely.
No, when you reminisce with him as he is holding his son, you won't remember those "broken days." In fact, you'll probably forget them in the next 2 years, because you'll be on to the next one. And lest you think you'll remember the "broken days" of the last one: forget it. You won't remember. Baby-hood is the simplest time. No reasoning with him, no correcting rebellious behavior, and lots of cuddling. Once you push past the need for sleep, it's all good. :)
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