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I Have a Longing for Babies, But Not in the Way You Might Think
by Dr. Emily Carter
Updated: Aug. 3, 2016
Originally Published: Sep. 17, 2015
I find myself yearning for a baby. Not a third child; I’m not seeking your baby either (good try, though). What I truly desire is my baby back. Whether it’s a boy or a girl, it hardly matters at this point. Perhaps I long for both, just not at the same time.
For the last several months, I’ve been experiencing a rather uncomfortable midlife “phase” where my affection for babies has intensified. I absolutely adore them. And, perhaps due to cosmic irony, my social media feeds are filled to the brim with adorable infants—some are just learning to walk, others are celebrating their first birthday, while many are peacefully napping. Those chubby thighs, delicate fingers, and wisps of fine hair tug at my heartstrings. The bright blue-eyed babies are particularly captivating, as both of my children share different shades of blue, even now in their teenage years.
These little ones populating my feed are clean slates, demanding nothing more than to be held, fed, and loved unconditionally. What could be more uplifting and life-affirming than a newborn? They signify fresh beginnings, reminding us that life continues, encouraging us to love ourselves a little more. Babies don’t hold grudges, roll their eyes at requests, or leave their socks scattered about. Although they require significant care, the joy and love they provide are irreplaceable—moments filled with that pure “I love you” gaze that only a child can offer, free from curfews, licenses, or chores.
I find myself wishing to transport my soul back in time, desperately grasping for the memories of my daily life with babies. I want to remember the sensation of cradling a sleepy infant close to my neck during early mornings, while the rest of the household remains in slumber. I want to recall the feelings of bathing my firstborn, terrified that he might slip from my grasp. I long to remember the exhilarating announcements of “It’s a boy!” and “It’s a girl!”—both times, I felt an intrinsic connection to who they were even before they entered this world, as if I had known them all along since those faint lines appeared on the pregnancy tests. I yearn to relive their first dances, songs, and imaginative play, all done with a delightful lack of self-awareness or anxiety. I miss rocking in the kitchen with my baby girl nestled on my hip, feeling her heartbeat resonate through my hand on her tiny back. I want to soothe tears, provide comfort, and simply exist in those precious moments.
But those memories are elusive.
“You’re creating memories!” people would often remind me during tedious grocery runs or while pushing a swing at the park. I probably parrot that phrase now to my younger friends embarking on their parenting journeys. Deep down, they understand too that their seemingly endless days of routine will pass by more quickly than they could ever expect.
But memories! “You’ll cherish all the memories!” they insist. Yet as time progresses, those memories don’t always retain their clarity. Some are jagged and raw, and many don’t align with how my children remember them (which can be quite surprising). However, some moments stand out, illuminated as if by a spotlight, allowing for vivid recollection at any time.
Just rewind.
Yet, the mundane daily routines—the bath times, bedtimes, and innumerable readings of “Hop on Pop” or “Brown Bear, Brown Bear,” along with the countless mac and cheese dinners I scraped together—blur together. The “firsts” and “lasts” for each child, from tentative first steps to lost teeth and the transition to high school, all blend into a fog I cannot penetrate just yet.
I sift through boxes of printed photographs (yes, my children grew up before the digital age) that encapsulate their childhood, and I can see it all clearly. It happened, it was real, and we all survived to share our stories. There were camping trips, amusement park visits, birthdays, sleepovers, cherished pets, and beloved toys. I didn’t keep a blog or journal during those years; instead, we recorded videos and took pictures, preserving a treasure trove of memories packed away just down the hall.
But the hazy recollection of those 21 years unsettles me. I genuinely believed I would remember more vividly. At times, I worry that I am gradually losing my memories, one faded mental snapshot at a time.
If only I could hold my baby again. Either one of them. I wish I could relive just one day with my baby girl on my hip or my baby boy laughing until he lost his breath.
I assure you, if given the chance, I would remember—I truly would. I just long to hit rewind once more.
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Summary
The author reflects on the profound nostalgia and longing for the early days of parenthood, expressing a desire to relive cherished moments with her children. As she navigates the fog of memories, she grapples with the fleeting nature of time and the emotional weight of motherhood, yearning for the simple joys that come with caring for a baby.