We took down the baby gates last month. For good. Never to be used again. And while a big part of me jumped with joy to have free access to my stairs once again, another little part of me felt a pang.
We bought you a mattress last weekend. Not quite yet but so soon, we’ll take apart the crib. Forever. Never to be used again. And while we’ll celebrate the milestone of your “big boy bed,” another part of me will stifle a sob.
This, the bittersweet emotion that floods me with each milestone we pass, will be the burden you bear your whole life as my last baby. Your “lasts” are my lasts too. We will never experience this season of motherhood or childhood again. And each day it becomes more apparent: You’re my last baby, but you are hardly a baby anymore.
Your hair won’t always be a tousled mess of silky, baby-fine curls. And even if it is, you won’t let me bury my face in it like you do now. You’ll twist away instead, defiantly telling me to leave it alone, it doesn’t need to be brushed, and you’ll run away down the hall.
But not yet.
Your cheeks won’t always be so kissably chubby. And even if they are, you won’t let me pepper those squishy cheeks with kisses on a regular basis like you do now. You’ll squirm and push me away, embarrassed, and you’ll wipe my kisses off with the back of your hand.
But not yet.
Your voice won’t always be so adorably tiny and high-pitched, mispronouncing words in the charming way that only toddlers can. You’ll be louder, rougher, alternating between random shouting and hysterical laughter over the forbidden “potty words” – or worse. You’ll use language that will take my breath away.
But not yet.
And you won’t always be content to sit snuggled on my lap, sucking your thumb and holding onto my finger to comfort yourself. I won’t be able to fix everything with a hug and a kiss and maybe a song or a story. Your problems will be bigger … and my lap will be emptier.
But not yet.
Mama, want to cry ugly tears? Listen to this song and really listen to all the words. Then listen to this version, where her daughter sings it with her. I dare you to get through it dry-eyed.
Slow down.
I know you’re 2 years old but think you’re 5, like your brother. I know you did everything sooner, faster, better because you have an amazing role model to look up to.
But please, for your mama, who’s struggling with the season of change upon her, slow down just a little bit. Take it slower. Don’t rush so much to grow up and go on to the next thing.
I won’t always be so emotionally raw. Or maybe I will, because I’m a mom – but I’ll hide it better. I’ll give you freedom and space and trust and encouragement. I want you to spread your wings and not just fly away, but soar with the grace and strength that I know you have inside you.
But not yet.
Slow down. Stay here a minute.
Not just for you, but for me.
