This week, I celebrated my last baby’s first birthday. G is officially a one-year-old. No more telling people I have a baby at home.
I could cry at the drop of a hat thinking about how fast my kids are growing. The days are long but the years are short. It’s truly unfair, especially when they’re little and just so freakin’ adorable. I started writing this post on March 4th, so clearly I’ve been dreading this birthday milestone for a while.
Dreading and looking forward to it at the same time. Here I go again, a complex web of contradictions.
I am tearfully rocking my baby, I mean, my toddler to sleep because she will be ever so slightly heavier and older and more independent tomorrow. At the same time, I’m thinking about all the things I want to do with my life after she leaves the nest 17 years from now. I simultaneously want my freedom back and my children to stay in their preschool years forever.
I can’t believe a year ago we were bringing her home from the hospital. I can’t believe today, she’s walking and climbing and communicating. She’s drinking from a straw and prefers solids. I can’t believe that this is the year she’ll learn to talk, to run, and maybe move out of her crib. Tell me how the first year of a baby’s life makes sense. Seeing her grow from gremlin to a little girl in just 12 months is mind-boggling.
What’s also weird is that I don’t even remember Bub at this age. I had to look at photos and videos to remind myself, which made me terrified that I might someday soon forget what G is like at this very moment. Oh please let me remember her chubby cheeks, the sound of her babbling, her toddling to me with arms open wide. A big toothy grin on her face. I want to remember all of it.
Now I’m crying again.
