To my little one, as your second birthday approaches.
If I had known that moment would mark a significant goodbye, I would have captured it in a photograph. There you were, drifting off to sleep just as you had for nearly two years—eyes half-closed, a sweet smile gracing your lips, completely absorbed in nursing. Your hands folded together, almost as if in a silent prayer. Sometimes, you’d pause to giggle, share a word with me, or even break into song. Other times, you’d just lean back and peacefully doze off. Regardless of how it ended, it always began the same way: our comforting routine of just you and me.
It’s remarkable to think about—at almost 2 years old and with another baby on the way, I was eager for this chapter to close, while you seemed blissfully unaware that it was time. The last month of my pregnancy took its toll, both physically and emotionally. I found myself wishing for the end of this part of our journey, even while relishing those tender moments.
Then, one day, it simply stopped. It was our everyday norm one moment, and the next, it was a cherished memory. Had I known, I would have held you a bit longer or snapped that picture to preserve every detail of your tiny hands in prayer.
The next time you fell asleep, it was in your father’s arms, not mine. He gently laid you in your bed while I stood in the kitchen, tears streaming down my face—not just because you no longer needed me for that, but because it was yet another ending.
This is it, the start of goodbyes. We often celebrate your milestones and firsts, but I’m realizing that lasts are just as significant. Your second birthday is just around the corner, yet we’ve already experienced so many of these bittersweet moments.
The last time I heard your baby giggle; your laughter has deepened and evolved. You don’t find humor in the same things anymore. Gone are the days when I could bring you to hysterics just by saying “mama” repeatedly. Now, your sense of humor is uniquely your own, often finding joy in the oddest situations—definitely a trait you inherited from your father.
I remember the last time you needed to sign to me because you couldn’t articulate what you wanted. I still recall that first sign for “more,” and how we cheered for you as you began to communicate in your own special way. Then came your first word, a simple “hi,” and suddenly, your vocabulary exploded. One moment you had a handful of words, and the next, you were forming sentences. I can’t even remember the last time you signed to me.
The last time you asked for a stroll in your stroller feels like a distant memory. Now, you prefer to walk on your own, eager to do everything by yourself. I can hardly recall the last time I wore you in your carrier, which once felt like our only mode of transportation. Another goodbye that passed without fanfare. One day it was our routine, then it vanished as if it never existed.
I often wonder when will be the last time you ask to be picked up or want to hold my hand to show me something you’ve spotted outside. Although there are many firsts ahead, it currently feels like a season of goodbyes.
You’re growing and changing so quickly that each day brings something new, something you no longer need my assistance with. It’s a beautiful transformation, yet it’s also heartbreaking. It’s not that I want you to stay little—I long for you to grow, learn, and discover—but these fleeting moments seem to slip away without warning. I rarely realize I’m experiencing a transition until it’s already happened.
The irony is that while I see this as a season of goodbyes, it continues to be a time of firsts. The last time you nursed was also the first time you fell asleep on your own. Instead of lamenting the last time you asked for a ride in your stroller, I remind myself it’s the first time you wanted to walk down the street. Just as autumn can lead to winter, this season of goodbyes is still filled with firsts.
I only wish I had a little warning, a gentle nudge to remind me to cherish these moments, for they won’t come again.
Today, I find myself missing your baby giggle and the way you used to curl up against my chest, your ear pressed to my heart. What will I long for tomorrow?
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In summary, as we navigate this bittersweet journey of parenting, we must recognize and appreciate both the firsts and lasts that shape our experiences together.