I'm Not Alone

Friday night was a little rough.  I had just returned home from an almost all day trip to my parent's house because my middle brother Mike flew into town from Maine to visit and meet his godaughter for the first time.  It was about 8:30 and I was about to settle down at the table and eat my grilled cheese sandwich when Natalie, who I had just left sleeping peacefully in her carrier on the kitchen table next to me, started to wake up and cry.  As I was lifting her up out of the carrier, I felt something warm and squishy on my fingers as I reached around her back.  Oh shit.  Literally.  She had exploded out of the TWO diapers she was wearing (more on that later) and all over her brand new dress and on the carrier.  I abandoned my dinner and went about cleaning her up - thank goodness for paper towels because I somehow managed to escape this entire ordeal without getting the poop directly on me.  I went ahead and wiped her entire body down with baby wipes and put her in her pajamas and then laid her in the bouncer seat downstairs while I focused on dismantling her carrier and then Oxy Clean-ing EVERYTHING that she was wearing or sitting in.  While I'm rushing around the kitchen and the laundry room taking things apart and scrubbing and starting laundry, Natalie is lying in her bouncer screaming.  Not just the "I'm hungry" or "I'm being ignored" cries, but flat out screaming like Angie was gnawing off her toes.  The more gutteral her cries became, the higher my blood pressure rose and eventually, I'm not sure who was crying more...me or her.  And if Angie could cry tears, she would have because she was just as nervous and anxious about the situation as I was.  Finally I was able to shut the lid on the washer and rush back to the bouncer where my child's face was as hot pink as her "I heart Daddy" pajamas and I whisked her upstairs to her dark and quiet bedroom to calm down and nurse.  As she began to relax and nurse, I could feel the tension seeping out of my body and I was able to rest my head back on the glider, close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.  As I opened my eyes and looked down at my little cherub with her eyes closed peacefully, her hand clenched around the middle strap of my nursing tank top and her cheeks still slightly flushed from her frustration...I realized something.  I was not alone.  Two thousand years ago, Mary nursed and loved her baby Jesus just as I nursed and loved on Natalie that night.  She too had her moments of sheer anxiety and panic while raising him and in that instance, I felt comforted.  Comforted...and humbled.  I now understand the love that she had for Jesus and it wasn't love just because he bore the name Savior, but because to her, he bore the name Son.  She loved him just as much as I love Natalie and what a sacrifice it was for her to allow him to become a Savior for the rest of the world.  It might have taken about what seemed like a gallon of poop and an hour of sheer insanity for me to gain this great insight, but everytime I feel like I'm going to lose it when Natalie wants to nurse...AGAIN...for the fifth time in an hour, I remember that I'm not alone and that women have been doing this against greater odds than what I face.