I often reminisce about the little moments we shared—those lazy mornings when we’d sleep in as long as we wanted, enjoy breakfast sprawled on the rug, and then, just because we felt like it, venture out for a stroll in the fresh spring air. I’d bundle you up in the baby carrier, wrapping us both snugly in my oversized coat. As we roamed, I would point out the trees, or we’d imagine clouds shaped like snowmen, unicorns, or whipped cream.
And how could I forget our quest for the moon? Your absolute favorite. We called it the “day moon.” Remember?
Once we got home, we’d snuggle on the couch, still chatting away, before diving into a book, working on a puzzle, or drawing pictures—just the two of us in that cozy little apartment, no agenda, and no distractions. A mom and her toddler, inseparable, living a simple yet fulfilling life together, completely in love.
Sure, I know I’m glossing over your epic toddler meltdowns, your stubbornness, and the fact that you rarely played alone, leaving me with hardly a moment to breathe. I’ve also blocked out how restless you were at night, often waking up multiple times, and how overwhelmed and stressed I felt during that time.
I’ve buried the memories of that summer when you were 2 ½, a time when the stress of early motherhood caught up with me and I battled late-onset postpartum anxiety, complete with daily panic attacks.
But I’m beyond all that now. What remains are the memories, and they hit me hard. I find myself missing those days, missing us.
I recognize that what I have now is everything I ever dreamed of: two wonderful boys who still enjoy curling up on my lap and treasure the little things in life—like the moon or a breathtaking sunset outside our window. Each of them gets their own “special time” with me, and they’re blossoming into kind, intelligent young men—amazing additions to our world.
But life has changed, hasn’t it? You’re growing up. I know you don’t rely on me as much as you once did. Your love for your brother is evident, and life without him is unimaginable for you.
Everything feels busier now. Sleep-ins are a rare treat. No more breakfasts on the rug; now it’s quick bites in front of the TV before rushing off to school. When you return, I’m often tied up with work, cleaning, reminding you about homework, and trying to tame your brother’s never-ending messes while preparing for the next day.
There’s love and connection within our home, but it’s a different kind. Our lives don’t revolve around one another the way they once did. You’ll never have all of me like you did back then. In many ways, the fullness of our lives is beautiful and inspiring, but in other ways, it feels like a loss.
While pregnant with your brother, I secretly feared losing what we had. I wanted him desperately, but I dreaded the changes that would come. However, once he arrived, all my fears dissolved. I fell in love with him instantly, realizing there was enough love in my heart for both of you. I dubbed it my “boy love,” and it knows no limits. I reassured myself that I hadn’t lost anything with your brother’s arrival, and in many ways, that’s true.
Yet, I can’t deny the moments when I yearn for those days—wondering how something so uniquely intimate could disappear so quickly. The bond between a mother and her firstborn is irreplaceable. How can you truly move beyond the loss of that connection, that level of attention, that time when your entire universe revolved around one child?
Maybe you never fully recover from such a loss. It might not be something you think about daily or obsess over, but it’s still a loss that can catch you off guard and break your heart anew. Sometimes I feel like motherhood is just a series of losses like this, and all I can do is learn to live with it.
Yet, every so often, I’ll find myself reminiscing about the little things—like your golden curls perfectly framing your face, or how you’d request to be carried to bed, giggling as if you were a sack of potatoes, your tiny hand brushing against my lips.
Those tiny details flash back so vividly that I ache for those days. I miss it. I miss us. And perhaps that longing will always remain.
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Summary
This reflective piece captures the bittersweet nature of motherhood, as the author reminisces about the intimate moments shared with their first child, navigating the complex emotions surrounding growth and change as the family expands.