To my little one, as we approach your 2nd birthday.
If I had realized that moment was our last, I would have captured it in a photograph. I remember you dozing off just as you had done every single day of your life until that point. Your eyes were half-closed, a gentle smile gracing your lips, completely focused on nursing. Your tiny hands were often pressed together, like you were silently praying. Occasionally, you’d pause to giggle, share a thought with me or serenade me with a little tune. Other times, you’d just lean back, content, and drift off to sleep. Regardless of how it ended, it always began the same way: just the two of us in our serene routine.
You were nearing 2, and I was almost 5 months pregnant, feeling ready for this chapter of our bond to conclude, but you weren’t. It had become both a physical and emotional challenge for me during that final month of pregnancy. I would sit with you, watching you fall asleep, quietly wishing for this part of our journey to be over. Then one day, it simply stopped. One moment, it was our norm; the next, it was merely a memory. Had I known, I would have done things differently—taken that picture or held you a little longer, imprinting every detail of those little praying hands in my mind.
Soon after, you fell asleep not in my arms but in your father’s. He carried you to your room, laid you down, and I stood in the kitchen, tears streaming down my face. It wasn’t just that you no longer needed me for that; it was yet another goodbye.
This marks the beginning of the lasts. We dedicated so much time to celebrating your first milestones that we overlooked the inevitable lasts that would follow. They arrived so swiftly. Even as your 2nd birthday looms just days away, we’ve already experienced countless lasts.
The last time you giggled like a baby, your laughter now deeper and more resonant. You no longer chuckle at the simple repetition of “mama.” Those days are gone, replaced by a sophisticated sense of humor that finds joy in the quirkiest of things (a trait you’ve evidently inherited from your dad).
I remember the last moment you needed to sign to me because you didn’t yet have the words to express what you wanted. I still recall that first sign for “more” and how we celebrated your ability to communicate. Then came your first word—“hi”—and suddenly, your vocabulary exploded. One day, you had a handful of words, and the next, you were crafting sentences. I can’t even pinpoint when you stopped needing to sign to me.
The last time you asked for a ride in your stroller feels like a blur. Now, you prefer to walk on your own two feet. Just as with everything else lately, it’s all about independence. I can’t remember the last time I wore you in a carrier, which used to be our go-to for outings. Another last that slipped by unnoticed. One day it was our routine; the next, it was something we simply used to do.
When will be the last time you ask me to pick you up? When will you no longer want to hold my hand as you lead me to show me something outside? I know there are many firsts yet to come, but in this moment, it feels like we are in a season of lasts.
You’re growing up at lightning speed, changing daily, and each day brings new discoveries and milestones that you no longer require my assistance with. It’s awe-inspiring, miraculous, and yet heartbreaking. Not because I don’t want you to grow (that’s my ultimate wish for you), but because these moments seem to vanish without warning. I hardly realize we are transitioning into a new season until it’s already underway.
As I perceive this time as a season of lasts, it also remains a season of firsts. While I dwell on the last time you nursed, it’s also the first time you fell asleep independently. Instead of mourning the last time you asked for a stroller ride, I should celebrate the first time you wanted to walk down the street. Just as fall sometimes feels like winter, this season of lasts is undoubtedly intertwined with a season of firsts.
I wish I had a little forewarning, a gentle nudge in my mind to remind me to hold on tight to these fleeting moments because they won’t come around again, and I will surely miss them.
Today, I find myself longing for your baby giggle and the way you used to nestle against my chest, your ear to my heart.
What will I miss tomorrow?
This article was originally published on Dec. 14, 2016.
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Summary
The bittersweet transition of a toddler growing up brings both the joy of first experiences and the nostalgia of lasts. As a parent, it’s essential to cherish these fleeting moments, recognizing that while some stages are closing, new ones are beginning.