Life in Extremes

I spent the majority of my time in India in a baffled state of trying to reconcile the extremes.  A land of contradictions, there was a Grand Canyon sized gap between those who have and those in utter poverty, those who were giving and those who would steal and take you for everything you had, and the beauty and the raw ugliness. India was bizarre, filthy, appaling, maddening, unfamiliar, yet at serendipitous times, overwhelmingly beautiful, unchartered, exhilerating, full of surprises, and capable of moving my spirit to a level that is undefinable.  While the darkness could be so hopelessly abymsal, the spiritual beauty soared to a level so transcendent, I couldn't help but cry on a daily basis.  Against the constant chaos and despair, India gave me some of the most breathtaking, miraculous, God-filled moments of my life.

I have come to the conclusion that having a newborn is kind of like India.

In both, I have gotten little to no sleep, have rarely gotten a hot shower uninterrupted, suffered complete physical exhaustion and emotional breakdowns, and of course...there is so much poop everywhere!

The lows can be so low. The up all night sleep deprivation, moving through your blurred days as a stained, disheveled, frumpy, sore, spit-up covered zombie.  Those disheartening times when nursing isn't quite the beautifully perfect, effortless beatific experience La Leche makes it out to be.  Instead, there are times when she is screaming, arching, her mouth no longer belonging to a soft baby's, but instead has been taken over by an angry pirana in a purple sleeper who is fiercely pulling on your painful nipple and stretching it like it's taffy. Her tiny balled fists are curled in fury, her face beet red and her cries like a machine gun.  She's crying.  You're crying.  The dog is hiding.  Night comes and you wonder with anxiety how you are going to do this all night again with no sleep.  It starts to feel like Groundhog Day. It all seems hopeless...

But then, the morning light comes.  She wakes up and smiles at you, beaming at you in recognition.  She laughs when you make raspberries on her little tummy and she reaches out to your face, exploring your jaw and nose as if it's the most amazing thing ever.  She looks deep into your eyes in recogition, just straight into your soul, as if she's the only one in the world who really knows you.  These moments, when she is warm and squishy and soft and loving, there is nothing better.  Except when she is warm and squishy and soft and loving in your arms while completely asleep, peaceful with her soft whispery breaths.

And then there are the magic nursing moments when everything gels and she latches on seamlessly and effortlessly.  She reaches up with her free hand, touches your jaw and then smiles at you.  Then, she closes her eyes and sighs contently and it is as if God's divine light is pouring right through you in all of its transcendent glory.

Or it could be the oxytocin release...

Either way, as my friend Emily says, "It's a good thing, at 3 a.m., that they're so damn cute."  Word.

And she is cute.  And I am so blessed.  And again, God never said it would be easy, only worth it.  And she is worth it.  My God, is she... I have never known such love.  There needs to be a bigger word for this kind of love!