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Blessed To Be So Weary

I have these down-in-the-dumps moments when my husband is deployed, and I’m playing the single-parent game.

It’s so hard. I’m tired. I don’t get a break. It’s lonely. I’m never alone.

I just want to pee/eat/shower/read a book without the constant “Mama! Mama!” and grabby little hands every few seconds.

I adore my children, but mid-deployment, I sometimes grow weary.

It was one such weary moment, craving an escape for 30 minutes while we were at a playdate, that I got up to go make some sandwiches for the kids. I glanced down at my phone and saw a text from a friend of mine who lives in the Midwest.

She was in labor. She was actually about to be a mother. She was pushing, according to her text message.  Baby was about to be born.

I stood there. Silent. Absolutely dead still. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

And then her sister texted me.

“Baby Lisa was born with 10 fingers and 10 toes and a full head of curly blond hair.  She went to heaven before she came into the world, but we are still celebrating her life.”

And then I cried.

My friend’s daughter, Lisa, had Trisomy 13. My friend had spent the last 14 weeks since finding out holding her close in her womb, where she was safe and very much alive. But she knew she wouldn’t survive outside the womb, and so, her labor and delivery was a birth and a death all at once.

It was a mother’s nightmare. It was something I didn’t want any mother, let alone a dear friend, to experience.

To hold your baby as she passes. To know there will be no dimples to kiss. No sweet heads to pat. No tiny bodies to hug.

To know they won’t grow up. They won’t walk. Say their first word. Beg for bananas and crackers and one more bedtime story.

To know their story ended before it began.

And there I was, weeping over a sandwich I had been making a bit resentfully just moments before.

My children make huge messes. Dirty diapers. Demand things we don’t have and refuse every snack I make and offer. They scream and tug and fight and track in more mud than my 100-pound dog. They don’t always listen; they are never quiet, and they fight sleep morning, noon and night.

But they are here. Blessedly close. Always available to squeeze. Covered in unidentifiable stickiness and sweat and applesauce remnants. They hog my bed, crowd my bathroom, and never, ever leave me alone.


But at the end of a long day, when my husband is still deployed, and I’m still very tired, and I’m still single-parenting, they are here. With me. With us.

My friend’s daughter was a sad blessing for me. A reminder that to serve – as a military spouse and mother to military children – was a gift some women only dream of.

My resentment, rather shamefully, melted away after that.

And though I still grow tired, at least now I can remember that I am very blessed to be so weary.
 

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