Life worth living

I had started writing a post about how desperately I want the sleep situation in our house to resume some semblance of normalcy. I've been sleeping in the nursery for a few months now, trying to let my husband get some sleep and make it easier for me to nurse in the middle of the night (occasionally we'll switch spots when I'm working a few days in a row so that I can get a bit more sleep and he can do some feeds). Baby girl is a horrible napper and has taken to getting up in between feeds at night to play. And the best sleep I've gotten in weeks is either in the call room at work, or in my parents' bed while my mom watches her. Most days I feel like it will never end. If I'm honest, I've been feeling pretty sorry for myself.

Then I read this article, shared by Jenny over at Mama Needs Coffee (you should subscribe if you don't already). And it broke my heart. I kept waiting for the author to say "But then I realized that my son is beautiful and perfect and his life is worth living," but she never did. As a fairly new mom, and someone who takes care of these kids with a "terminal disease", I had to close the window before I finished reading. It made me physically sick. How anyone could think that loving someone who is suffering means trying to eliminate their very life is beyond my comprehension. It's taking our modern society's aversion to suffering to a whole new level. A sickening, despairing level.

And then this morning Jenny shared this, which sure seemed like a direct response, though it may not have been. Someone with a terminal disease choosing to celebrate her life. The same life some people might want to eliminate, for her own sake. I wanted to rub it in the first author's face. How dare you decide that your son's joys and triumphs and growth will automatically be outweighed by his suffering. But more than that, I rejoiced because there were more than malice and indignation in the response (she's a bigger person than I). There was true delight in life. She lists many things in her life that make the suffering worthwhile: "That I'm breathing...learning to knit...tickling babies...Christmas shopping...The Wizard of Oz...Elizabeth Bennet...fish and chips..." and so on.

My heart lifted as I read her list. Yes. Yes to all of it. I thought about my own preoccupation with the four month sleep regression and my fatigue, and I made my own list.

Baby giggles.

Goat cheese.

Not wearing socks in November.

My pillow.

Game-winning field goals.

Being there for a friend.

Drinking wine on the couch with my husband.

A really good massage.

Laughing until you cry. 

I mean, the list is literally endless. The number of good things in my life is un-countable. Even the list of good things born of my suffering is un-countable. Ask any mother who has gone through child birth (the author above notwithstanding).

So with some perspective tucked under my belt, do I still long for the day when I can sleep in my own bed and my daughter will sleep (even mostly) through the night? Of course. But would I trade those gummy smiles because it's hard? Not for a second. Suffering is not the worst thing in this world. And even if it were, it does not have the final word.

Today, I choose gratitude. I choose life. I choose love.