It’s actually happening. As much as I tried to put my foot down and push it away, the inevitable is happening. At first I actually wanted the weeks to go by. Getting to eight weeks meant being able to take him everywhere. Perhaps twelve weeks would make me closer to a full nights sleep. Six months could mean less crabbiness and no colic. I then spent the next few months enjoying everything (in between juggling the other monsters of course). Once nine months rolled around, I realized that things were snow balling out of control. Days, weeks, months were passing and it was humanly impossible to soak it all up. By the time we reached double digits, I was experiencing such self loathing from previously wishing an ounce of this first year with this incredible baby away. And now I’m staring down the proverbial barrel. I’m face to face with the fact that my last baby is turning one.
Please do not get me wrong because I’m happy that I’m done multiplying. I’d even venture to say I’m thrilled. The last six years my body has been an incubator, a meal ticket, in recovery and prepping for incubation. I’m so happy to be here just me, myself and I. But my last baby is turning one! We are almost done with bottles (and formula – yay!). The baby bath tub has been retired. Our days of onesies are numbered. I can’t help but be sad even though I am sincerely thrilled for what’s ahead.
Now it’s time to plant our feet on the ground and settle in as our amazing family. The last six years have been filled with change and turbulence. I look forward to developing our dynamic as a family of five, even if it means my last baby (perhaps a baby I didn’t get to enjoy nearly enough) turns one.