I’d waited and hoped. Pleaded, davened, and waited some more. So many people weren’t blessed with children. Who could guarantee that I would be?

And then I was. There was the actualization of all those prayers. This little bundle of joy and beauty and — ohh, hair! — was mine, all the time. As in, every single moment of night and day. I didn’t think I realized what that meant when I brought my new arrival home.

But I learned soon enough. I hadn’t understood that most of my day would be gone. Well, not gone. Just not for myself anymore. When my little boy was asleep, I had some free time, and prioritizing became a desperately necessary skill that I mastered. Sometimes. Other times, stress and pressure would keep me up at night. Exhausted, I’d go through the motions the next day.

It’s a brachah, I thought now as I heaved my yingele up over my right shoulder. Maybe this ear hurts him. I contemplated the merits of putting a clove of garlic in each ear, not sure which side made him more uncomfortable. Maybe I should call my husband home in the middle of Maariv. And do what? The same thing you’re doing? What good is there in having two helpless adults trying to help one helpless baby? I rocked him back and forth, then side to side, then back and forth and up and down and all around, then to the beat of aili-luli-lu — which was all in my head, because there was no real beat when whispering a lullaby.

Soon enough, I was out of ideas. And lost. And helpless. He was tired, but he would not calm down. Not when I held him. Not in his crib. Not in my bed, or anywhere else. He threw his little arms out and screamed, his back curving, his legs kicking, his face red. What? G-tt in Himmel, what is it, Tzaddik? What’s bothering you?

I couldn’t take it anymore. Part of me wanted to put him down and walk away. Maybe he’d stop. I knew he wouldn’t. Not now. What can I do, Mommy’s Boy?

 I wiped away wetness from my cheek that I hadn’t noticed before. I was crying along with him. When your son cries, your heart melts. All you want to do is help him and comfort him. The stronger he kicks, the tighter you hold him. The louder he screams, the softer you whisper in his ear. The more he yells, the greater the urge to make his pain go away. As desperate as he was, that was how desperately I wanted him to stop hurting.

The idea that came to me next wasn’t a lucid thought, but a dim realization deep in my subconscious mind. If I would cry like that, if we all cried like that, wouldn’t He make our pain go away? If I cried like that for Mashiach, wouldn’t he come? If we understood that we were His children in every sense of the word, that we were His treasure, His joy, His delight, would we not cry like babies do? Would our wordless, soundless, desperate tefillos not pierce the Heavens? Would the Eibeshter not treat us with the same unbridled love and desire to make it better? To make it all good for His children? He would. Of course, He would.

Not that He would. He does. As the baby relaxed into my arms, his cries easing to a whimper, I stared into his tearstained, adorable face. He already does. Of course He does. I don’t even realize I’m in His Hands right now. I lifted my face up. As the cries got quieter still, I offered a silent thank You, mixed with a deep yearning for Him to listen to what we’ve already wept over for so long. My plea didn’t have words, but the soundless tefillah was a cry to the One holding me and listening, guiding me to realize who I truly was.

I didn’t know exactly what I was crying for. What I wanted to say, but couldn’t.

When your baby cries out in pain, even a minute feels like an hour. When it’s millennia of mind-numbing, piercing, desperate cries from all of Your children — it’s heard. Even when we don’t know what we want, what exactly is wrong, or how to make it better.

And He understands.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 905)