Sometimes I want to run down the street and tear off my clothes screaming and crying, you know grieving in a biblical way, when Abraham, Moses and Aaron tore their clothes. I want to grieve for the person I’ve lost; the person I used to be: That wide-eye 20-year-old with a world of opportunities, a tight butt and a fresh look on life.
When Amelia cries, I want to cry too. I want to lay down and let the tears stream and wail. I want to let all of the frustration of the last six months flood out of my body in a mind-numbing scream. I want to roll and stomp my feet and swing my arms. I want to put my whole body into it, what’s left of my body anyway, and cry at the injustice of it all: At the nine months of bloating, swelling, sweating and feeling like you are on the verge of puking; at the terrifying moment when your body starts to cramp and heave, moan and groan, push and pull and expel this tiny thing that feels like a 10,000 pound gorilla; at the next few months that are spent in an exhausted-sleep-deprived haze (all you want to do after all that expelling is sleep and that 7 lb miracle can pierce your heart with a single cry). And when you just think that you can’t get up one more time. That your body, which has contracted a vicious concoction of toxic germs and is expelling everything from your stomach this time, and your whole body aches like the jolly green giant used you for a stool.
You dig deep, and you find that your love for this tiny screaming bundle of joy is greater than any bug. Sometimes I wonder if God isn’t like our own personal trainers. That he, like Jillienne and Bob, isn’t sitting on the sidelines screaming, “YES YOU CAN. I’LL SHOW YOU, YOU CAN…” On the treadmill of life, he isn’t saying dig deep.
And like a marathon runner that breaks through the wall, you hit your emotional stride, you stand up and fight, bottle in hand, burb clothes at the ready. This I believe. I believe that it is in these moments that the true character of a man shines. You can leap over tall bridges, climb a mountain in a single bound, but can you hold a crying baby at 3 a.m? This I believe is the character of man.
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