My baby turns 1 on Sunday. My last baby. In what has to have been the fastest year of my life he has gone from a tiny 6 lb ball of heaven on my chest to a 24 lb package of baby on my hip. I don't know how it happened. (and all of the other cliche's about time)
I have snuck into his bedroom almost every night these past couple of weeks to watch him sleep. My heart aches for him in a way I can't put words to. I feel it deep in my soul. The need of him. Perhaps it is because he is my last, the last chubby hands tapping on my chest, the last baby breath drifting up from my shoulder, the last tiny feet curled so perfectly against my body. Chris and I had a divine partnership with God in creating tiny beautiful people but he the last and I am in mourning.
I scooped him up from bed one night and held him tightly. As I sniffed the top of his freshly bathed head I felt it all in one giant rush, those months of pregnancy filled with fear and anxiety, the strength it took to bring him into the world, the immense love that filled the room when we first met, the feeling and knowledge that Heaven and earth were one in the same if only for a moment, those wonderous eyes seeing things for the first time, the sleepless nights, the million swaddles, the early morning feedings cuddled up in bed, the worry, the tears, the giggles, the laughter. A whole year of life flooded my mind and it was breathtaking, and it was heartbreaking. I could almost feel the tiny moments of ordinary days slipping through my hands as I clutched him tighter and the tears fell freely. And it seemed to me that the ordinary moments of story telling, and stroller walking, and midnight rocking will be the moments I will miss the most. Mothering constantly requires a delicate balance of holding on and letting go that I am still trying to navigate. But I am grateful for the ride and the ability to hold on tightly even as I am letting go.
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