When the Baby Years Draw to a Close

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It’s happening—I can sense it.

We’ve waved goodbye to bottles, the trusty Boppy, and the days of baby-wearing. My breast pump now sits untouched in the back of the closet, its whirring motor still echoing in my memories. That light at the end of the tunnel? It’s not just a flicker anymore; it’s shining brightly like the dawn breaking. We’re nearly there, inching closer to a life beyond the baby years.

If you saw my family, you might think we still have time. My youngest, Bella, is still very much a baby, and my eldest, Max, doesn’t start school until next fall. But deep down, I feel the shift. Bella is already insisting on picking out her own outfits. She’s eager to “help” with laundry, and oh, the excitement she finds in coloring on walls instead of paper. Toddlerhood has arrived, bringing with it its own set of magical moments and tiny trials. And as I fold laundry, I find myself pausing to distinguish between my socks and Max’s. Seriously, when did his feet grow so big?

Yes, the next chapter is on the horizon, and it should bring relief, right? The thought of a new phase should fill me with joy—a time for sleep, showers, and maybe even rediscovering that elusive concept called “hobbies.” Everyone seems to revere those days of raising little ones. “Oh, I remember those times,” they say with a knowing glance, acknowledging our tired eyes and messy hair. They remember the sleepless nights, the endless colds that seem to last from October to April, and the overwhelming responsibilities of feeding, diapering, and just trying to keep everyone alive. Some days, it feels like the weight of it all could crush me.

“Hang in there. It gets better,” they reassure me with a gentle pat on my shoulder.

But here I am, teetering on the edge of “better” and all its promise. I find myself looking back at the baby years, holding on tightly to those overwhelming demands. Just a little longer, I think. I want them to need me just as desperately for a bit more time.

I even suggested to my partner, Jake, that we consider having a third child. He gently, yet firmly, tossed that idea back to me. And honestly, I understand his hesitation. It’s more about my fear of moving forward than an actual desire to stay where I am. This phase has been the toughest of my life, pushing me beyond what I thought I could handle. I’ve learned to survive on just enough energy to get through every day, collapsing into bed at night only to rise and do it all over again. But soon, there will be room for more.

And if I’m being truthful, that’s what I fear the most—not being ready to embrace life beyond motherhood. It’s daunting to think about pursuing dreams instead of just chasing little ones, to let go of my excuses for losing sight of myself.

“Roots and wings,” I remind myself as I navigate motherhood—my mantra that all this love and effort is to prepare them to soar on their own someday. But perhaps there’s a promise for me, too. Roots and wings, Mama. This life with little ones isn’t my only story. My roots extend deeper than this chapter. There was a version of me before them, and I’ll rediscover her.