You know that incredible feeling you get when your fresh, squishy, butter-skinned baby is plopped onto your chest after a delivery that felt like it went on for weeks and weeks? The one that makes you think you could probably summit a mountain, float off into space, or fearlessly fall headfirst out of an airplane? It’s the most cathartic cocktail of endorphins, adrenaline, and exhaustion. And it’s magic.
I had that feeling three separate times, but this last time, 14 months ago, when my third baby was born, I knew it was the last time I’d feel it. I knew it like I know random college algebra formulas and the address of my childhood home. It was automatic. I even recall having the thought, “This is it. She’s my last baby.” And the most peaceful sadness washed over me as I held her tiny fist in my hand.
In the weeks and months that followed, I made a conscious effort to savor everything. I smelled her tiny head like it was a freshly picked bouquet of flowers. I let recliner snuggles linger, even when laundry piles glared at me from across the living room. I tried to memorize the swirl of her double cowlick at the back of her head, the cadence of her hearty laugh when she mimicked her big brother and sister, and the sporadic sound of her wobbly waddle when she learned to walk. The memories with her stack on top of each other, compressing each one down, little by little.
This is an ode to my last baby, to the one with the very last set of firsts. How did I know she was the caboose? When did I know? Along the path of our last go around, I have discovered the answers to these questions, and I hope they can help you flesh out when it might be time to hang up your newborn mom hat for good, too.
How did I know? This one is the hardest to explain for me. The best way I know how to describe it is an overwhelming sense of peace. I wasn’t itching for more; I was content. And contentment and I don’t always find each other, so when I felt it, I sat with it. And then I kept feeling it, day by day.
Beyond that, some practical reasons came into the frame as well. For one, I felt this pregnancy in such a different way. My body ached deeper, my exhaustion hit harder. I was older, more overstimulated by my first two kids, and frankly, just so dang tired all the time. I realized that my mental and emotional health might suffer if I were to go through that process again, and if those things suffer for me, they might just suffer for my children as well. I didn’t want to take that risk. I’d rather ride this contentment out for as long as humanly possible.
When did I know? This one is easier. The second her heart was beating next to mine, I knew. It was a familiar sense of home that I was feeling, and something about it felt so final. I was tired. I was euphoric. I was holding the true baby of our family, and that felt so right.
Motherhood is nothing if not illuminating. It shows us who we are at our core and carves us into something we never could have seen coming, year after year. I wish I could bottle up that newborn aroma, pull it out from the back of my nightstand drawer, and take a little whiff when I need a tiny reminder of how beautiful and worthwhile motherhood is. But that’s not how this life works. We have to live every moment, be as present as we can muster, and keep hoping that the mothers we are now are even better than the mothers we were yesterday.
They say the days are long but the years are short, and I suppose that’s true. The best we can do is give ourselves grace on the long days and love our babies through the short years, from the first baby to the very last.
