A few weeks ago, I was joking to Scott that maybe we should name our next baby after the patron saint of sleeping. (I admit I'm not sure who that would be.) Of course, I added, naming our first baby after the patron saint of impossible causes amounts to the same thing and we all know how well that worked.
(Yes, now you can guess Tad's real name, or at least get down to a short list. I don't care; I don't use his real name so people can't Google him based on his future resume and I am quite sure nobody is going to look at his resume and think, "I should Google 'the patron saint of impossible causes' just in case I find something.")
Then yesterday I was talking to Sheila on Facebook and told her that joke (she gets all my baby sleep jokes) and she said, "Instead you got the impossible baby!"
I didn't think much of it at the time, but I've been slowly digesting it ever since and I think Sheila might have been more right than she imagined. I don't think I ever told the story of how Tad got his name, for obvious Google-y reasons, but his first name was not on our list of baby names going into the pregnancy. It wasn't until about 18 weeks that I suggested it and Scott suggested a middle name to go with it and boom, he was named. (And three weeks later we found out he was a he, which was kind of nice since I didn't like our backup girl name nearly as much.) It was one of those situations where it's less like giving him a name and more like finding the name he was always supposed to have.
There have been so, so many times in the last 14 months that I've asked God why he would set me up to try to do something so clearly impossible. I don't expect my life to be easy, you know, but I don't expect it to be impossible. When it gets to that point grace is supposed to appear and help you get through it.
And apparently believes that I can.