It’s a new chapter for me. As a mother, this marks the first time I don’t have an infant in the house. Tomorrow, my youngest son will celebrate his second birthday. With my three boys spaced just 20 months apart, each time one of them turned two, another baby was already part of the family. For six years, I’ve been in a whirlwind of pregnancies, nursing, and caring for newborns, with no pause in between. But now, it’s been a full year since I’ve nursed or bottle-fed.
Lately, I catch myself glancing around, feeling like something is missing. When I wander down the baby aisle at Target, I can’t help but rush past the pacifiers, swaddle blankets, and breast pumps, even though a lump forms in my throat. There’s no longer a need for these items.
Just the other day, I ventured into my grandmother’s basement to dig out Rubbermaid bins packed with baby clothes, now ready to be handed down to my soon-to-arrive nephew. As I sifted through the soft cotton onesies from the hospital, I was struck by nostalgia. Was he ever really that small?
While preparing breakfast for my other boys, my youngest zips by, a blur of fleece pajamas and tousled blonde hair. I recognize those pajamas—navy blue and orange soccer balls dancing across the fabric. They’re size 2T, the same ones that always fit the toddler waiting for his baby brother to come home. My heart aches as I instinctively reach for a newborn who seems to be just out of reach.
But it’s only him. My little boy who wraps his arms around my neck, who sits beside me with his chubby hand in mine. His soft hair still wispy, his sleeping face reminiscent of the grainy ultrasound photos from before we met.
Yet, I’m surprised by how clearly he communicates now. His toddler thighs fill my lap as he fetches himself a cup of water and brushes his own teeth. When I glance in the mirror, the reflection of a boy who’s too big to be cradled catches me off guard. It feels almost awkward to bring him close.
These precious moments that I missed with my older boys, overshadowed by the demands of newborns, now stand out vividly. There’s no new baby to shift my perspective, making him seem enormous. He remains my baby, but he’s turning two too soon.
Even his arrival was earlier than anticipated—four days ahead of the scheduled C-section, a rush of amniotic fluid during his brothers’ bedtime routine heralding his dramatic entrance. Everything has flown by so quickly, often ahead of when we felt ready.
I find myself longing for the postpartum ward of the hospital with its soft turquoise and peach decor, the comforting trays of food, and the nurses who treated us with such care. I barely recognize myself without a newborn in my arms.
We’ve been racing toward two, a destination that feels almost inevitable. The months feel cumbersome, blurring the lines of time. As my boys grow, the distance between what they need and what I can offer widens. Their world will expand beyond this home, while I remain fixated on the small, from tiny newborn hands to the simple joys and challenges that come with young children.
Yes, I feel anchored by my children, yet also somewhat unmoored. On a recent solo afternoon in Manhattan, I climbed the subway steps only to find myself disoriented, buffeted by the bustling crowd. Without the weight of my children, I felt adrift, like a plastic bag caught in the wind. I worry that when they’re older, I may not recognize myself at all.
For a deeper dive into the emotional journey of motherhood, check out this thoughtful piece on how you might feel a void when you’re done having children. It’s a poignant reminder that every stage of parenting comes with its own unique challenges and reflections.
In summary, as I watch my youngest approach his second birthday, I am filled with a mix of nostalgia and wonder. The journey of motherhood is both beautiful and bittersweet, a constant balancing act between cherishing the present and grappling with the passage of time.