Tomorrow marks a significant milestone: my youngest son will celebrate his second birthday. This is the first time as a mother that I find myself without a baby in the house. With three boys spaced just 20 months apart, every time one turned two, there was another little one to care for. For six straight years, I’ve navigated through pregnancies, nursing, and the chaos of newborns, without a moment to pause. Yet, it has now been a year since I last held a breast or bottle.
Lately, I’ve been wandering through stores with a sense of longing, as if something essential is missing. I find myself in the infant aisle at Target, skirting past pacifiers and swaddle blankets, the sight of boppy pillows and breast pumps constricting my throat. No more need for those items, I remind myself.
Just this week, I delved into my grandmother’s basement to sift through Rubbermaid bins brimming with baby clothes, now destined for my soon-to-arrive nephew. As I handle a soft hospital-issued onesie, nostalgia washes over me. It’s a common sentiment, but I can’t help but wonder—did they ever really fit in my palm?
While preparing breakfast for his brothers, my youngest zips by in a blur of bright fleece pajamas and tousled blond hair. Those pajamas—familiar navy blue and orange adorned with soccer balls—are size 2T, the very ones that always seemed to anticipate the arrival of his younger brother. My heart aches with the absence of that imagined newborn.
Yet, here he is. My little one who wraps his arms around my neck, squeezing tightly. He sits beside me, his chubby hand slipping into mine, still sporting that wispy blond hair. His sleeping face resembles the grainy ultrasound image from long ago. But then, I’m taken aback by the clarity of his words and the way his toddler legs fill my lap. He fetches his own water and brushes his teeth without assistance.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, startled by the reflection of a little boy too big to cradle. It feels strange to gather him against my chest. Those tiny, monumental moments passed me by during my first two experiences, muted by the cries of a newborn or the demands of a firstborn. Now, without the arrival of a new sibling, he remains my baby—at least for a little longer.
His entry into this world was unexpected, arriving four days early during the bedtime routine of his brothers, a rush of anticipation signaling his dramatic debut. From the very beginning, it felt like time was slipping through our fingers, always slightly ahead of our readiness.
I find myself reminiscing about the hospital’s postpartum ward—its soft turquoise and peach tones, the long corridors, and the comforting food trays brought by caring nurses. And of course, that tiny pink infant—whether swaddled in the bassinet or cradled in my grateful arms.
Without a newborn, I feel a bit unmoored. We’ve been racing toward the age of two, and as my sons grow, the gap widens between their needs and what I can provide. Their world will soon extend beyond the walls of our home, and I find myself clinging to the smallness of life—from delicate newborn hands to the simple joys of raising young ones.
Yes, I feel anchored by my children, but as they grow, the ties loosen. I wonder what will keep me grounded. Recently, while navigating the bustling streets of Manhattan, I found myself disoriented and tossed about by hurried strangers. Without the weight of my children beside me, I felt adrift, like a loose plastic bag caught in the breeze. It’s a bit unsettling, and sometimes I worry that when they’ve flown the nest, I might not recognize myself anymore.
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In summary, the journey through motherhood is filled with fleeting moments and lasting memories. As I prepare to say goodbye to my youngest’s babyhood, I reflect on the bittersweet nature of growth and the inevitable changes that lie ahead.