My little, wailing bundle of joy, the one who always reached for me with his pudgy hands and toothless smile, has now turned 3 years old. Well, to be precise, he’s actually three and a half, and at this age, precision is key, as they grow rapidly and learn at a remarkable pace.
Three and a half. I have memories of being that age, feeling like a complete person with real emotions. Yet, my youngest, whom I fondly call Sunny, insists, “I not big! I tiny!” No matter how much he protests, the undeniable milestones remain: he’s fully potty-trained, and his speech is clear enough for others to understand. It’s rare now that I carry him on my back; he sleeps in our bed but sprawls out by himself, arms and legs everywhere, clutching his favorite Paw Patrol toy.
The days of nursing bras and worrying about feeding access are long gone. He still seeks cuddles, kisses, and affection, but today he surprised me by drawing a person complete with arms, legs, eyes, and even a sword. In that moment, I realized I was no longer just a baby mom. I had transitioned to a mom of a toddler, or rather, a little boy. In fact, I’m now the mother of three boys: ages 7, 5, and 3 and a half.
This change has been brewing for quite some time. I once was not just a babywearer but also a certified educator in the art of babywearing. Yes, there are actual certifications for this, and I was proud to be part of that community. I was the friendly face greeting newcomers at their first meetings, expertly wrapping my baby in intricate carries that left him perched high on my back. I was the mentor, the seasoned mama guiding new moms through their journeys.
As babywearing evolved into discussions about feeding methods, diaper choices, and sleepless nights, I found common ground with other mothers. I could connect with women I had little else in common with and spend hours chatting. My older sons only added to my credibility. I had been through it all.
Some of these women became my closest friends. However, as Sunny’s babyhood faded, so did my inclination to babywear. I let my certification lapse, acknowledging that my baby was no longer the tiny bundle that new moms cradled. While I loved him just as he was, it was a bittersweet realization. Our conversations became limited, and those friendships that once flourished began to drift apart. We had little left to bond over, aside from our shared experiences of early motherhood, and as my baby grew, so did the distance.
Suddenly, I found myself as a mom to three boys, feeling disconnected from my tribe. The baby section at stores like Target no longer held my interest, and I found myself stepping away from cloth diaper and baby carrier exchanges. I lost touch with many of my Facebook groups. Since we homeschool, I began meeting other homeschooling moms, but I struggled to find my place. There are the adventurous kayaker and her daughter, the mom whose son shares my middle child’s love for dinosaurs, and another mom whose kindness shines through her children. While I appreciate these connections, the friendships feel more fragile. As our kids grow, playdates become less frequent.
I used to help my friends with their household chores. It was a gesture of love. I’ve witnessed their homes in chaos and brought them lattes when exhaustion took over. I miss that sense of solidarity.
Now, I’m navigating a world where I no longer have a baby. Without a preschooler, I miss the instant bond with other classroom moms during drop-offs and pick-ups. Instead, I find myself reaching out to old friends—the fashion-savvy photographer and her poetic husband, or the college buddy who’s a single dad and whose son plays with Sunny. I’ve started to wear more makeup, dress differently, and have carved out time for fitness. My husband and I enjoy dinner dates, and while I relish these changes, a part of me longs for the certainty of my previous role.
I once knew that I was needed constantly. Now, my son is independent enough to be left with others, to express his desire for space, and to demand his favorite shows. I didn’t realize how much I craved that feeling of being needed until it was gone. Now, I face an emptiness that needs to be filled with friendships, books, art, music, and date nights.
Filling the void is much more challenging than simply being needed.
For more on navigating motherhood, check out this post on home insemination kits. It’s a great resource for those considering starting a family, and for further information, visit WomensHealth.gov, which offers excellent insights on pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, you can explore Texas Walk of Hope for more support on this journey.
In summary, transitioning from the baby stage to motherhood of older children is a bittersweet experience. While I cherish the growth of my children, I also find myself searching for my place and community, missing the connections formed during the earlier years.