The hour of the night is late, maybe two or three in the morning. The only noise that surrounds me is the dull hum of the white noise machine, my husband’s snoring, and the soft breathing of the baby beside me. My alarm quietly goes off with a reminder to “feed baby boy.” I rise out of bed, bend down, and cradle him in my arms.
We proceed to have our second nursing session of the night, and although tiring, it has quickly become one of my favorite moments with him. Just he and I, snuggling in the dark, cultivating a bond only we share. Call me selfish, but I love it. Just a mother and her son.
After he’s done nursing, I gently lay him in the bassinet. Then, as silently as I can, I crawl back into bed and pull over the covers. I snuggle into the blankets and lay my head on the pillow, slightly tilted toward him, listening for the quiet sounds of breathing he so delicately expels once asleep.
At the same time, my 10-pound, firstborn fur baby walks over to me and tilts his head to the side, gives a slight whine, and licks my head. All in an attempt to remind me he would like to snuggle back to sleep. He waits for me to pull up the covers so he can find his coveted spot along my left side, circles once, then twice, and proceeds to plop down with a humph. He tucks in close, and I feel the warmth of his body against my own. Further over to the left, my husband continues to snore loudly, exhausted from the long work week he has so selflessly put in, which allows me to be the SAHM that I am.
It is here, sandwiched between my boys on my left and the little boy on my right, that I stare into the darkness of the room, mind wandering back to the days when only a dresser flanked my right side. When I prayed and prayed to have a baby in a bassinet to wake me in the middle of the night, only to have the dream slip through my fingers like a fistful of water over and over again.
For two and a half years we tried. The good ol’ fashioned way, the countless medicated cycles, the IUI way, and then eventually IVF. We found ourselves on a long and arduous journey of infertility. I’d like to say I handled it with grace and an overwhelming amount of trust in God, but to say so would be a lie.
After losing the third pregnancy, I was tired of hearing the relentless reminder that it would happen “in God’s timing.” I quit praying and held my grudge against God. To be honest, I wanted nothing to do with Him. It’s a good thing God doesn’t hold grudges back.
I can’t really say I was on speaking terms with Him when my husband and I drove up to the fertility clinic on July 6th with all our hopes and dreams wrapped up in the one and only embryo left in storage. This was it. All or nothing. It would either work and we would become a family of 3 (plus a fur baby), or it wouldn’t. As you already know, God chose to bless us even though I most certainly didn’t deserve it.
A sound to my right brings me back to the present, where our five-month-old son starts to coo and babble in his bassinet. I slowly roll over, making sure not to squish the fur baby beside me. I reach over the side of the bed and feel for the soft rise and fall of his chest to provide the comfort he seeks to fall asleep. But instead of his chest, I find a small tiny hand reaching up, flailing in the dark for some type of comfort to hold onto. We make contact and his little fingers wrap around mine tightly. His little hand is small and strong, warm and perfect. I’m twisted at an odd angle, but I dare not move.
Because it is in this moment, not only do I feel my son’s grasp, but the grasp of God’s hand holding mine. I can only describe it as perfect joy and comfort. Peace and calm. Gentleness and love. A powerful reminder of His goodness when we don’t deserve it. A reminder that although I shut Him out from my life, He was always there, holding my hand.
Now, in the dark of the night, we all proceed to fall asleep. A son holding his mother’s hand and a new mom holding her Father’s. A forever grateful mother. Goodnight sweet boy—you are truly a blessing from above.
by Claire Brown 
by Olivia Grist 
by Jessica Smola 
