Tonight I am burnt. Crispy fried, oven roasted, spit fired.

It is in these moments of complete personal erosion that I understand how people shake their babies to death. Before I had the baby I was afraid that I'd be one of those people. I was afraid that I'd get sleep deprived, exhausted, frustrated and in the middle of one of the baby's crying episodes, lose my grip on reality. I wondered if I had the patience, the temperament for childrearing.

Then the baby came, and he cried.

He cried a sweet, innocent, vulnerable cry into my Mommy Ear. I heard his newborn cries as if I were a mother seal and that in order to find him I would have to hear his singular voice above thousands of other baby seals, all crying for their mothers, on the ice floe.

What I learned about myself in those early weeks after his birth is that there is something in me bigger and more powerful than patience. This greater force shows itself even in the face of extreme trial, frayed nerves, and prolonged exhaustion. This greater force provides more leeway than patience, covers more square footage than temperament. This force, the one that keeps me from shaking the baby (or drinking myself to sleep), is compassion.