To my dear daughter, as we approach your second birthday.
If I had known that moment would be our final shared experience, I would have captured it with a photograph. I can still picture you, drifting off to sleep just as you always had: your eyes heavy, a gentle smile on your lips, utterly absorbed in nursing. Your hands would come together almost prayer-like, sometimes pulling away to giggle, share a word with me, or sing a little tune. Often, you’d just lean back, content, and slip into slumber. Regardless of how it ended, it always began the same—just the two of us in our cherished routine.
You were nearly 2, and I was almost five months pregnant, ready to see this chapter of our bond come to a close. Yet, you weren’t quite ready. The physical and emotional toll of nursing had intensified during my pregnancy. As I watched you fall asleep, I quietly wished for this phase to end soon.
Then one day, it simply changed. What was our norm transformed into a memory. Had I realized it would be the last time, I would have savored those moments differently—perhaps taking a picture or lingering a little longer to memorize every detail of your tiny hands.
Soon after, you fell asleep not in my arms but in your father’s. He carried you to your room and laid you in your bed while I stood in the kitchen, tears filling my eyes. It wasn’t just another sign of independence; it marked yet another ending.
This is it: the beginning of the lasts. We often focus so intently on your firsts that we overlook the bittersweet nature of lasts that come swiftly on their heels. You’re just days away from your second birthday, yet we’ve already encountered numerous lasts.
The last time I heard your baby giggle, your laughter has grown deeper and more discerning. You no longer find delight in the simple repetition of “mama.” Now, your humor is unique, often finding joy in the quirkiest things—something you undoubtedly inherited from your father.
I remember the last moment you needed to sign to communicate. I can still picture the first sign you learned—“more”—and how we celebrated your early attempts to express yourself. Then, your vocabulary exploded. One moment, you had a few words; the next, you were constructing sentences. I can’t even recall the last time you had to sign to me.
The final request for a stroller ride has faded; now, you prefer the independence of your own two feet. It seems like just yesterday that you relied on the carrier for outings. Another moment slipped away without notice, turning our routine into a memory.
When will be the last time you ask me to lift you up? Or the last time you hold my hand, leading me to show me something beautiful outside? While I know many firsts await us, we are presently navigating a season of lasts.
Every day reveals new changes and discoveries. Your rapid growth is both miraculous and heart-wrenching. It’s not that I don’t want you to grow; I want nothing more than for you to thrive. Yet, these moments pass by so swiftly that I often don’t recognize the transition until it’s too late.
As I reflect on this season of lasts, I also realize it’s a time of firsts. The last time you nursed coincided with the first time you fell asleep independently. Instead of mourning the end of stroller rides, I celebrate your first request for a walk down the street. Just as autumn sometimes gives way to winter, this season of lasts is still filled with vibrant firsts.
I just wish I had a gentle reminder to cherish these fleeting moments, to hold onto them tightly because they won’t come again.
Today, I miss your baby giggle and the way you would curl into my chest, your ear pressed against my heart.
What will I long for tomorrow?
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In summary, while we cherish the milestones of our children, it’s essential to recognize the bittersweet nature of lasts. Each ending paves the way for new beginnings, and amidst the heartache, we find joy in evolution.