It seems most nights I spend just waiting for morning to come, since sleep often doesn't. I sigh each time I glance at the clock, realizing only very minutes have actually passed and sunrise is still far away. And the mischievous first of the month was once again no different.
Waking up to the crying sound of "ma ma, ma ma!" is hard to ignore. Especially when little tiny hands are outstretched towards you hoping to be held. When I picked Libby up sometime after 2 o'clock, her clothes were wet as she had leaked through through her diaper yet again. I usually keep spare pajamas with the diapers and wipes next to the crib, but I had relapsed on my preparation this time. She whimpered as I removed her soiled clothes and changed her, quickly wrapping her up in a blanket as we ventured foggy-eyed upstairs to find more pj's.
Not wanting to wake her anymore, I kept lights off using only my phone flashlight as a guide. Pj's in hand, the crying increased and it became apparent my little girl had passed the threshhold where simple rocking would put her back to sleep. We headed to the kitchen where a bottle was waiting in the refrigerator. For a moment I felt proud I had actually remembered to prepare something. That moment was quick in passing. I put the new clothes on my little one who focused on the warming milk, begging to have it already. In near slow-motion as I attempted to put the bottle lid on, while balancing Liberty on one hip, it tipped sending milk spilling in every direction, including over the counter, down my clothes, across the floor, and everywhere in between.
I'm sure I'm not the only one who has cried over spilled milk, but I truly began to sob as I had to set my sleepy baby down on one side of the floor so I could clean up the milk. But of course, in the dark I couldn't see the entire lake of milk and had to flip more lights on, sending Libby to sob herself. There I cried, on hands and knees sopping up her bottle's entire contents while she cried, attempting to shield her sleepy eyes from the light.
It was an obvious slap from single parenthood, which practically mocked me as my tears mixed with the milk.
"Help!" I plead. "Jared, please comfort our baby so I can clean this up. Please, please help me!"
I could hardly complete the task at hand as waves of loneliness and inadequacy crashed down over me. My hands hung down and my knees felt feeble. All the while, those tiny hands stretched out to me as I had to ignore more cries of "Ma ma, ma ma." Where was morning? Would the wretched night ever end? Then I wondered; was Jared standing near, weepy softly alongside his girls wishing he could wrap us both up and shush our crying? Or was he smiling kindly, knowing one day this experience would make me strong and durable?
And then as if an angel himself, my father appeared in the kitchen doorway asking what was going on and if I needed help. I looked up at him from tearful eyes. "I spilled all the milk," I sobbed. He looked down and saw Libby and immediately scooped her up and began to comfort her. I still had to change clothes myself and prepare a new bottle before I could have her back. I listened to my dad sooth my crying daughter, which soothed me in return. I thought back to stories of him walking me up and down the halls as an infant, lulling me to sleep. He seemed to still have the calming touch, as Liberty calmed and I was able to wipe the floor clean from my clumsiness.
Safely back in our plush rocking chair, I draped Liberty with Jared's blue baby blanket. I smoothed it over her as she hungrily drank, eyes almost immediately drooping closed. I was content to hold her as she nestled against me. Still, the night's stress was not all the way gone from my sweet, tiny girl as she continued to sigh and turn and whimper for the next hour. Again I thought, where is the morning? Where is the sun to break over the mountains and stream light in through the window? I just needed to survive the night. As I continuously swayed the both of us forward and back, I searched for an old general conference talk that had brought me comfort in the early months of my husband's passing.
"Fourteen years ago the Lord took my wife beyond the veil. I love her with all my heart, but I have never complained because I know it was His will."
Elder Richard G. Scott
As I thought on these lines, the same lines that struck me months ago, I realized I needed to focus more efforts on not complaining. As Elder Scott also shared the tender stories of losing a daughter, and a son six weeks later, my eyes welled up again with salty tears. My own broken heart seemed to break a little more for him.
"We should never complain, when we are living worthily, about what happens in our lives."
I needn't complain about spilled milk, or lack of sleep, or anything really. I sat there with my beautiful baby in my arms, finally peacefully sleeping. I know my husband and I have both strived to live worthily of God's promised blessings. I then felt my dear husband, whom I love with all my heart, close to both of us and smiling. And then as if right on cue, sun rays began to warm up the sky behind the blinds, gradually bathing the dreary night with warm and hopeful light.
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