Cry Baby

At first, I thought my tzaddik’l was hungry. He wasn’t. Just plain tired? Well, that, too. But there was something more. I watched his little body twist and contort in pain. What was hurting him? I’d already put on some baby Oragel, so if he were teething, he should’ve already relaxed. Unless it got worse just before his first tooth cut through? Maybe it was gas? Another ear infection? Something else?

Soon, I was doing a rock-coo–sshhh… Mommy’s here… dance around the bedroom, feeling more lost and less confident with each passing minute. Should I call my mother? Call his doctor? Give him Tylenol? How was it that this little being in my hands was able to make me doubt my years of built-up self-assurance? Being a first-time mom was an incredibly humbling experience. Everything was a first. As knowledgeable as I thought I was from seeing and helping family with their own little ones, nothing had prepared me enough for this.

I’d waited and hoped. Pleaded, davened, and waited some more. So many people weren’t blessed with children. Who could guarantee that I would be?

And then I was. There was the actualization of all those prayers. This little bundle of joy and beauty and — ohh, hair! — was mine, all the time. As in, every single moment of night and day. I didn’t think I realized what that meant when I brought my new arrival home.