The Sacrifice

His little hand is clutched around my finger. I can feel the heat radiating from his palms, and as he shifts on my chest, his feverish eyes lift to mine. He sees me and is reassured, remembering: Yes. I have a mama. And she loves me.

I’m hot. This personal space heater lying on top of me has caused sweat to trickle off my forehead and down into my ears. His fever has nearly reached 104 degrees, and I am waiting, willing his fever to break. It’s late, almost 3:00 am, and I’ve been singing lullabies and tickling his back for hours. I have not slept, but been in the in between place of consciousness and unconsciousness that does not sate my need for rest. I immediately panic, thinking of my busy day only hours ahead of me. How can I function on three hours sleep? And I get angry then, listening to my husband snoring placidly next to me. I want to give the baby to him, tell him to take a turn, tell him that I need my sleep, because it’s my turn. My turn!

But then I think, no.
No.
I am a mother.
And motherhood is about sacrifice.
I am somehow calmed by this thought.

I settle in for a long night. The strength of my voice renews as I begin to sing to him “You Are My Sunshine."
Because he is.
This small human being is my light, my life.
My everything.
I clutch him tighter, and give him soft little kisses on his head and shoulders, somehow suddenly grateful I am up with him, that I can hold him and love him and kiss him and calm him.
How did I get so lucky?
He is sick, hurting. And I am his mother. And I will do anything for him.