A long time ago, when Tad was maybe six weeks old, I was talking on the phone to a very pregnant friend and she asked me, "Is he worth it?" And I paused. And she teased me a little. And I told her to ask me again when I wasn't quite so sleep-deprived.
Almost two years later, I'm still not quite sure how to answer that question. How do you take the utterly delightful human being that he is now (he likes to do things over and over again just to make you laugh, asking "Funny?" to make sure you are enjoying it; and he insists on regular group hugs; and he declares "Wow! Amazing milk!" before he begins to nurse, which I never would have anticipated when I was sobbing my way through those early growth spurts) and weigh it against a year of crippling hormone-induced anxiety and months of equally crippling hormone-induced depression and two years of sleepless nights (he's slept all the way through the night three times so far and we consider that a cause for celebration) and SO. MUCH. SCREAMING? I don't know how you do that, how you decide what's "worth it" or not. I mean, the theological answer is that he's a human being and infinitely valuable and therefore "worth" any amount of suffering and sacrifice but the human answer is that I honestly still don't know if I would have pushed so hard for parenthood had I known just how difficult it was going to be.
But I'm grateful that I wasn't able to make that informed decision, that I could never have believed what the last two and a half years would be like even if somebody told me. I think it's right that he's here. I think it's sort of inevitable that he's here, like the Tenth Doctor always talking about fixed points in time. He's not "worth it" or "not worth it"; he just is, as inexorable as the fires of Pompeii--and just about as good at destroying one's living room.