I reminisce about the small moments, like how we could sleep in as late as we wanted, enjoy breakfast on the floor, and then, on a whim, venture out for a stroll in the cool spring air. I would snuggle you up in the baby carrier, wrapping us both in my oversized coat. As we walked, I’d share the names of the trees, or we’d imagine the clouds as snowmen, unicorns, or whipped cream.
And how could I forget our search for the moon, your absolute favorite? We would call it the “day moon,” remember?
Once we returned home, we would cozy up on the couch, still chatting, then dive into a book, tackle a puzzle, or create a drawing — just the two of us, in that snug apartment, with nowhere to rush off to and no distractions. A mother and her toddler, inseparable, living a simple life together, utterly in love.
While I cherish these memories, I also acknowledge that I’ve glossed over your epic toddler tantrums, your stubbornness, and the fact that you rarely played alone, leaving me with little time to myself. I’ve suppressed the memories of those restless nights, when you woke multiple times, leaving me exhausted, stressed, and overwhelmed.
I’ve even erased the summer when you were 2 1/2 — the time when all the strains of early motherhood caught up with me, leading to late-onset postpartum anxiety with daily panic attacks.
But that’s all behind me now. What remains are those memories that both uplift and shatter me. I miss those days. I miss us.
I know that what I have now is everything I ever wished for. Two boys who still love to cuddle on my lap, who appreciate the simple pleasures in life, like the moon and breathtaking sunsets from our window. Two boys, each of whom I enjoy special moments with, growing into thoughtful and kind young men — truly outstanding contributors to the world.
Yet, life has changed. You are maturing, and I understand that you don’t need me as much anymore. Your bond with your brother is immense, and I can see how much you cherish him.
Our lives are busier now. Most mornings, we can’t sleep in anymore. Gone are the days of breakfast on the rug; now we rush through meals in front of the TV before heading off to school. When you return home, I’m often preoccupied with work, cleaning, reminding you about homework, urging your brother to tidy up his endless messes, and preparing everyone for the next day.
There is love and connection in our lives, but it feels different. Our world no longer revolves solely around each other as it once did. You will never have all of me the way you did back then. While the richness of our lives is inspiring and beautiful, it also feels like a loss.
When I was expecting your brother, I harbored a fear I hardly shared — the fear of losing what we had. I thought about it often, and despite my deep desire for your brother, I dreaded the change that loomed ahead.
But once he arrived, all those worries disappeared. My heart expanded with love for both of you, a feeling I dubbed my “boy love,” limitless and unwavering. I reassured myself that I hadn’t lost anything with your brother’s birth. In many ways, everything fell into place just as it should.
Still, I can’t deny the moments when I yearn for those earlier days, pondering how something so uniquely intimate could vanish so quickly. The connection between a mother and her first child — how could it ever be replicated? How can one truly move past that bond, that level of presence, that time when your sole child was your entire world?
Perhaps you never fully recover from that sense of loss. It may not be an everyday thought, nor something I obsess over as I once might have. Yet, it remains a loss capable of breaking my heart at times.
Sometimes, I feel that motherhood is a series of such losses, and maybe all I can do is learn to live with it. Yet, every so often, I remember those delightful details — like your golden curls perfectly framing your face or how you’d ask me to carry you to bed like a sack of potatoes, giggling all the while, your little hand brushing against my lips.
Those tiny moments can come rushing back, and I find myself longing for those times so intensely that it aches. I still miss it. I still miss us. And perhaps that longing will never fade.
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In summary, while motherhood brings immense joy and love, it also carries a bittersweet nostalgia for the simpler, intimate moments shared with your first child. As life evolves and children grow, it’s natural to feel a longing for those cherished days, reminding us of the unique bond that can never truly be replaced.