This is the second time I get to experience the “My Baby” things. Two decades ago, we thought our first daughter was the baby, our last. Since the three girls moved in when our baby was 22 and already living on her own, she genuinely was the baby.
And I felt all the things when ‘my baby’ started walking at
eight months and never stopped pushing.
She had this paranoia that one day her big brother would tire of her for
being too young. There was no reason to fear; he’s a marvelous brother and
adores her. Nevertheless, my ‘baby’ has
been growing up with fierce determination and I have watched with that poignant
cocktail of pride, delight, horror, and grief.
My point is that I have done this before. I am familiar with
the flood of images of all that has come before: nursing, first teeth, her
little legs only coming to ‘here’ on my body. I have seen the firsts and the lasts and
marked them in my momma heart. I felt them in their totality. I didn’t miss anything in the feelings
department.
But now, I have discovered another level. Watching your baby
leave a stage with finality is touching. But lacking the experiences of the
earliest years is far worse than being inundated with their memories. It is such a closed door. I will never nurse
her. I never saw her without teeth. I
never got to see her work to roll over, lift her head, laugh, crawl, cruise,
eat, take her first step… A birthday carries a new grief I’ve not known
before.
It is exciting to see her grow. That’s what it’s all about. I want her to mature, learn, and develop into
an honest, capable, and loving young lady. But my momma heart is feeling new
losses as this birthday approaches.
No comments:
Post a Comment