The Last One

Just this week, my Annemarie turned 11 months.  You don't have to be a genius to figure out how much that girl means to me; not because she's my only daughter, not because she's the baby, but because I think she's going to be the last one.

Typing that made me want to vomit.

I know a lot of mothers lament over their children's birthdays, mourning the loss of their younger years, but that's never been me.  That's not to say there is anything wrong with it, I just never understood it because I never felt that way.  Until now.

It really just hit me last night.  It's been sneaking up for weeks, I could feel it, but it wasn't until last night that the tears began to fall.  In buckets. 

Usually, by this time, Adam and I are either pregnant again or in agreement about plans for the next baby.  We've always been on the same page with kids.  This time, I'm reluctantly agreeing with his most logical approach to our now-complete family because 1.) he's very smart and 2.) we can only do so much. And with his constant traveling and my single-parenting, it makes sense to throw in the proverbial baby towel.  Choked on my vomit again. I feel like I'm giving up, and that makes me feel ill. 

Having babies is what I'm good at.  Raising babies is what I do.  It's really the only "me" I know anymore. We have good babies, too (total luck, but I used this in my defense as to why we should keep this door open.) With Annie's birthday around the corner, I won't have a baby anymore.  I don't even know what to do with that.  My entire identity is wrapped up in these kids.  I have 100% surrendered to my mom role. I own more flats than heels. Maybe none of this is healthy, but it's the life that I love and I don't want to let it go.  I don't. Adam tells me to focus on raising the older kids.  

I can't. Not yet. 

I can't yet get over the fact that I won't feel infant arms around my neck or have a baby perched on my hip for long.  I can't even begin to know how to wean the baby I have.  I can't fathom not changing diapers, not buying finger food, not blowing raspberries on tiny baby feet. 

I'm struggling, and not in a small way.  This hurts something fierce.  My heart feels like it is breaking.

And then I read this, how someone described weaning her last baby. The last one. 

My last nursing session with Noah was in the dreamy hours of a crisp September night, and I knew…

I sat down with him in the rocker, the sound machine offering its rainy tune, the night-light casting little golden flecks across his sleepy face. With his squishy cheek pressed into my breast, his starfish hand clasped around my index finger, and the gentle metronome of his breathing – in and out like waves on my heart, I allowed myself to become fully aware of it all – his very body being nourished by my own.

I turned our intimate space into an altar of worship – saying feel this, let your spirit acknowledge this holy place. I wrote my feelings down with love along the walls of my heart saying to my mind, “remember this moment, forever.”

Noah fell into a deep sleep, as he had so many times before, nestled securely in my arms, latched onto my breast, filled with contentment and quieted with sleep. Ever so slowly his mouth opened, slack-jawed and loose, lost in his slumber, my son took a deep breath stretched out his arms and … unlatched.

I leaned down and pressed my lips against his doughy cheek and I knew. I knew. I knew.

It was the end.

Oh, no. I'm going to need some help to get through this.