If you had only worked one arm free from your swaddle last night instead of both, and perhaps remained asleep a little longer, it would have been enough.
If you had only spit up a little instead of flooding my side of the bed, it would have been enough.
If there had only been pee in your diaper instead of a huge poop, when I stuck my hand in there like a total rookie, it would have been enough.
If I had only sneezed once just as you were finally falling back asleep instead of five times, it would have been enough.
And yet, when you flashed your glorious impish grin at me at 3:30 am, an hour and a half into our late-night adventure, as I squirmed to get comfortable on the towels I had laid down over your spitup lake, I found myself entirely delighted to be your mother.