It's not fair...

There are about five or six blog entries I have in mind to write (how Oliver and Miles look like twins... my return to exercise... my 5K turkey trot... life as a mother of two...), but none of them seem too important right now. 

It's 8:47 pm. One child is asleep, and the other resting in bed reading "Little Blue Truck." And I'm exhausted.  (Note to self: take a nap tomorrow. At least one.)

Miles had been up since we picked up Oliver at 4:15 this afternoon. FOUR HOURS. He's five weeks old.  That shouldn't happen. Although I attempted to rock, nurse, walk, and lull him to sleep at least a few times - succumb he did not. Thus he was overtired and found it even more difficult to fall asleep.

In between checking Facebook/Instagram, texting my mom, and watching clips (four minutes at a time. max.) of Breaking Bad (I'm on Season 4 Episode 9) I started thinking. 

There are so many people in the world (including my first-child rearing self) who would have been distraught at the idea of having a fussy infant for so many hours in a row. I missed having dinner with my family (and my inlaws on their last night in the states) because I was rocking, nursing, walking and lulling.  My hips hurt from so many side lunges (M's favorite) and my freshly-straightened hair had spit up in it.

In between the diaper changes, burps, scene changes and lullabies I remembered just how lucky I was to be in this situation at all.  As a first-time mom to Oliver, we were stressed out. He had jaundice, didn't nurse well, and screamed himself to sleep (while we rocked him with the white noise bathroom fan on). But we had him and we didn't realize just how lucky we were.

In the two and a half years since Oliver was born, family and friends have experienced and shared their heartaches with us and the world. Miscarriages, infertility, stillborns, babies who left their parents too soon. Some of the most genuine, thoughtful, loving people I've ever known who have experienced the world's worst kind of loss. It's thinking of their stories that make me tear up, wish they had never gone through those days, and hug my own fussy boys a little bit tighter. Even if it is 3am. 

I'm reminded of this every time I turn on "16 and Pregnant", but life isn't always fair. I don't know what those struggles are like, nor do I think I ever will. I am one of the lucky ones, and I know that. So, thank you, in the smallest of ways (D, M, B, A, T, S) for helping me to realize that my battles are minuscule. And that I'm lucky to have those very battles. Because that means I have my boys. 

My two gifts.