This is a first for me. Since becoming a mother, it’s the first time I find myself without a baby in the house. Tomorrow, my youngest son will celebrate his second birthday. My three boys are spaced 20 months apart, so whenever one reached two, there was always another baby around. Six years filled with pregnancies, nursing, and newborns—without a single pause. Now, it’s been a whole year since I last held a bottle or nursed.
Lately, I’ve noticed a peculiar emptiness. I sometimes find myself wandering through the infant section at Target, skimming past pacifiers and swaddle blankets, boppy pillows and breast pumps. I can’t help but feel a lump in my throat; these things are no longer needed.
Just earlier this week, I ventured into my grandmother’s basement to dig out Rubbermaid containers overflowing with baby clothes—now destined to be hand-me-downs for my soon-to-arrive nephew. As I ran my fingers over a soft hospital-issued onesie, I was instantly transported back in time. It sounds cliché, but was he ever really that small?
Now, as I prepare breakfast for his older brothers, he zooms by me, an adorable blur dressed in fleece pajamas and tousled blond hair. I recognize those pajamas—navy blue and orange, adorned with soccer balls. The same ones that always fit the toddler who awaited his baby brother’s arrival. My heart aches for the newborn who I imagine must be lurking nearby, but all I find is my little boy.
He wraps his arms around my neck, squeezing tightly, and sits beside me, placing his chubby hand in mine. His soft blond hair still has that wispy quality. Even when he sleeps, his face resembles the grainy ultrasound photo from before we met. Yet, I’m taken aback by how clearly he speaks now. His pudgy toddler legs fill my lap, and he confidently goes to get a glass of water or brushes his own teeth.
Walking past the mirror, I catch the reflection of my baby—who is far too big to carry now—and it surprises me. It feels almost strange to gather him up in my arms. Those tiny yet monumental moments I missed with my first two boys feel muted in comparison to this experience, where there’s no newborn to suddenly make him look enormous. He remains my baby, but soon, he will turn two. Too soon.
Even his arrival was unexpected—four days earlier than the planned C-section, a burst of amniotic fluid during his brothers’ bedtime routine signaled his dramatic entrance. Everything has flown by too quickly, always just a bit ahead of when we were ready.
I find myself longing for the hospital’s postpartum ward—the soothing turquoise and peach decor, the long, sleek corridors, and the trays of comforting food delivered by caring nurses. And of course, the tiny pink infant, swaddled in the plastic bassinet or cradled in my grateful arms.
Without a newborn, I feel a little lost. We’ve been racing toward two with an almost impatient inevitability. The months pass by too quickly, and as they grow, the gap widens between what they need and what I can provide. Their lives will soon unfold beyond these walls, and I find myself fixated on the small things—from delicate newborn fingers to the everyday challenges of raising little ones.
Yes, I feel anchored by my children, but as they grow, the bonds loosen, leaving me to ponder what might hold me steady. Recently, while enjoying some time alone in Manhattan, I climbed the subway steps only to find myself disoriented, jostled by hurried pedestrians. Without the weight of my children in tow, I felt unmoored, tossed about like a plastic bag in the wind. Sometimes I fear that when they’re gone, I won’t recognize myself anymore.
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In summary, as my youngest approaches his second birthday, I reflect on the bittersweet transition from babyhood to toddlerhood. The absence of a newborn leaves me feeling nostalgic and somewhat lost, even as I cherish the moments with my growing boys.