He’s crying again, I don’t remember the last time he was quiet.
He hasn’t slept for days, and neither have I.
I’ve bribed him with a bath, but I’ve still not had a shower.
He’s been given ice cream to soothe his gums, but my stomach is rumbling.

Parenting is hard. It pushes you way past the limits you didn’t even realise you had.

It’s times like these that I pause…and realise how lucky I am.

There are so many people out there, waiting. Trying desperately, wishing endlessly, to have a child.
There are so many out there who have had miscarriages, who never got the opportunity to pace the floors and neglect themselves in favour of their baby.
There are so many who had to say goodbye. Who would give anything to feel that hunger and fill that silence again.

I was once that person. Years of infertility, followed by 4 miscarriages, and I’m repeating the journey since my son’s birth, with more months waiting and another baby lost before they were found.

I couldn’t be happier to have the silence stamped out with screams, the sleep stolen, the hair unwashed, and the stomach unfilled.
It’s in these moments of exhaustion, of desperation, that I stop to notice the shape of his mouth as it contorts in a screech, the lashes that line those crying eyes, the sweet pitch of the teething cry.

It’s in these moments that I count my blessings, because I’m one of the lucky ones.

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