For over ten years I’ve been kissing and snuggling and hugging baby-type people, kissing and devouring their baby faces, dressing their chubby baby arms into small outfits, squeaking and squealing in baby-type talk to them. How do I let it go? How do I let this be the last baby, and never have another?
I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I’m drinking in every last second of breastfeeding this one, knowing this will be my last child to nurse at my breast.
I am wholeheartedly living each moment, desperately trying to commit to memory every freckle, every dimple and wisp of hair while he laughs, knowing this will be my last child at this age, my last infant and toddler.
I am reveling in the fact he’s taking his time with speech, and playing the “mama game” with him means ohsomuch to me.
I don’t mind changing two littles in diapers, because I know they are the last diapers I’ll be changing as a mother.
My heart is so heavy, my throat is so dry, so closed-up at the idea that my mom-to-babies days are nearing an end. I love the baby talk, the cutting food up into a million tiny little pieces, the baby chub and toddling and first everythings.
I don’t mind filling a diaper bag full with snacks and drinks for the road (although the idea of being able to hop into a car to go to a store without worrying about a change of outfit is rather nice).
I know I’m nearing a time in which my children are going to start being more independent and less-dependent upon me, as the time draws close that they leave the nest. I just don’t know how to even begin to prepare for that. I can’t even bear the thought of not having one in diapers.
Hold me.
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