I Had a Beautiful Baby, and Immediately Started Complaining

Why is gratitude sometimes so hard to grasp in moments of great blessing?

Shortly after midnight on a May day which I cannot describe in any further detail (being inside the hospital for its duration; it may have been cloudy, or rainy, or blazing hot and I simply do not know) my second son entered this world. He was neither early, nor, I suppose (though I am quite tempted to classify him as such), late. He arrived precisely when he meant to. He was large and in charge (nearly nine pounds), an immediately-proficient nurser and sleeper, and all around a very satisfactory (if somewhat jaundiced) baby.

That is he, himself, at the opening of this story, not a stock photo. (In general I am very cautious about sharing photos of my children on the internet, but it is a cold fact of nature that most newborns look alike, and at this tender & oblivious age I feel fairly comfortable letting you have a peep at squishy cheeks and smushed-up noses.)

He is now nearly three months old, but when he had been in this world for just a few weeks, I wrote the following. Since then, life has gotten easier in some ways (less illness, more sleep) and harder in others (my husband went back to work, the baby developed some intense reflux, and my postpartum anxiety cropped…