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I can sense it approaching.
We’ve already bid farewell to bottles, baby carriers, and the Boppy pillow. My breast pump now rests unused at the top of the closet, its once-familiar motor sound still echoing in my dreams. The light at the end of the tunnel isn’t just a dim glow; it’s shining brightly, akin to the break of dawn. We’re almost there—teetering on the edge of a new chapter, one that lies beyond the baby years.
You might argue that we still have time to savor the baby phase. My youngest is still quite little, and my oldest won’t start school until next fall. But deep down, I feel it in my very core. My daughter is already asserting her independence by choosing her own outfits. She’s eager to “assist” with laundry and has discovered the joy of coloring on walls instead of paper. Toddlerhood has fully arrived, bringing with it a delightful mix of joy and chaos. When matching socks while folding laundry, I find myself pausing, marveling at how my son’s feet seem to have grown overnight.
Yes, the next stage looms ahead. This should be a moment of relief, right? A chance to shift gears. After all, those with young children at home receive a special kind of empathy. “Ohhh, I remember those days,” they say, nodding at our weary eyes and disheveled outfits. They understand the sleepless nights, the constant battle with runny noses during cold months, and the relentless cycle of feeding and diapering. They’ve been there, and they know how overwhelming it can feel. “Hang in there. It gets better,” they often say with a supportive pat.
Yet here I am, standing at the brink of “better,” filled with anticipation and uncertainty. The promise of uninterrupted sleep, showers, and the chance to pursue hobbies—concepts that now feel foreign—are just within reach. But I find myself hesitating, clinging tightly to the baby years, wishing for just a little more time. I want them to need me as deeply as they do now, just a bit longer.
In a moment of longing, I even suggested to my partner the idea of having a third child—an idea he gently and firmly redirected back to me. I understand his hesitancy; it’s less about wanting to remain stagnant and more about my fear of moving forward. This phase has been the most challenging period of my life, demanding everything I have. I’ve learned to exist in a state of exhaustion, managing just enough to get through each day before collapsing into bed. Soon, however, there will be room for more in my life.
Perhaps, if I’m honest, that’s what frightens me the most: rediscovering myself beyond the role of “mom.” Finding time to chase my own dreams rather than just little ones. Losing the excuses that have allowed me to lose sight of myself.
“Roots and wings” is my mantra as I navigate motherhood—a reminder that all my love and care are meant to empower them to thrive independently one day. But perhaps that promise extends to me, too. Roots and wings, Mama. This life with little ones isn’t the only chapter that defines me. My roots run deeper than this phase, and there was a version of me before them that I will find again.