When I received the message that read, “I’m available next week if you’d like to go out. I can babysit Ava,” I felt a rush of panic. I knew this moment would eventually come, but I wasn’t prepared for it. The thought of stepping out without my little one was overwhelming. Admitting my true feelings would require a level of courage I wasn’t sure I possessed.
Ava is my third and final child. The decision to have her was a complex one, especially as my husband and I are both getting older, and our two boys are now quite self-sufficient at ages 5 and 7. After much discussion, we decided to embrace the joy of having a baby once more, and I have no regrets. My pregnancy journey was fulfilling, right up until the last few uncomfortable days leading up to her birth.
In the week before Ava arrived, New Jersey experienced an unseasonably warm spell. Every day, I took walks around the neighborhood, hoping to kickstart labor. But as I paced back and forth, deep down, I knew my heart wasn’t in it. I yearned for the sensation of contractions, yet what truly ached was the realization that my time with Ava was becoming limited. I would soon have to share her with the world.
During my first two pregnancies, this was never a concern. In fact, I’ve always considered my boys to be gifts to everyone around them. They radiate happiness and spread kindness wherever they go. I remember taking them shopping as infants; their smiles brought joy to everyone they encountered. I felt immense pride in how they uplifted others.
Ava, however, feels like a personal treasure, and I find it challenging to communicate that to others. I recall a wise friend once telling me that turning 30 would liberate me from worrying about others’ opinions, allowing me to follow my desires. I waited eagerly for my 30th birthday, yet when it came and went, I found myself no more assertive than before. Now, as I approach my late 30s, I sense I’m finally beginning to find my voice. This baby feels like a test of my newfound confidence.
I genuinely understand that the baby phase is fleeting. When Ava’s umbilical cord fell off just eight days after her birth, I felt a wave of emotion—she was growing up. During those late-night feedings, I cherish the intimacy of those moments, inhaling her sweet scent and gently kissing her. When her tiny fingers wrap around my thumb, I can’t help but feel she is clinging to those precious nine months we shared. Each time she pushes against my soft tummy, my heart swells with love. I wish for these moments to last indefinitely; the idea of letting anyone else hold her for even a second seems unbearable. Am I losing my mind?
With my first two children, I was overwhelmed by the life changes that motherhood brought. At that time, I couldn’t have imagined savoring sleepless nights, especially since I’m not one to handle sleep deprivation well. An offer for a night out would have been eagerly accepted. I craved that freedom. But this time, everything is different, and I want to express that.
Ultimately, I bought myself some time by telling my friend I would go out next week, hoping a few days might change my feelings. I’m not particularly optimistic about that though. Perhaps as I inch closer to 40, I’ll finally muster the courage to let others hold my baby, embracing the inevitable changes that come with motherhood.
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In summary, while I cherish the moments of my baby’s early life, I grapple with the idea of sharing her with others. This unique experience with Ava has illuminated how personal and profound the baby stage can feel. As I navigate these emotions, I hope to find the strength to embrace the changes that lie ahead.