I often reminisce about the small joys, like sleeping in as long as we pleased, sharing breakfast on the living room floor, and spontaneously heading out for a stroll in the fresh spring air. I’d tuck you into the baby carrier, and we’d bundle up beneath my oversized coat. As we wandered, I’d point out the names of the trees, or we’d imagine the clouds shaped like snowmen, unicorns, or whipped cream.
And how could I forget our search for the moon, your absolute favorite? We lovingly dubbed it the “day moon.” Do you recall those moments?
Once we returned home, we’d snuggle on the couch, still chatting away before diving into books, puzzles, or drawing together — just the two of us in our tiny apartment, with nowhere to rush off to and no distractions. A mother and her toddler, inseparable, living a simple, beautiful life, utterly in love with one another.
Sure, I know I’m overlooking your epic toddler tantrums and your stubbornness, not to mention how you rarely played alone, which meant I barely had a moment for myself during those days. I also remember how restless a sleeper you were, waking up multiple times each night, leaving me drained and overwhelmed.
I’ve pushed aside the memories of that summer when you were 2 ½ — when the stress of early motherhood caught up with me, and I faced late-onset postpartum anxiety, complete with daily panic attacks.
But that’s all in the past now. What remains are memories that can leave me breathless with longing. I miss those days. I miss the two of us.
I know that what I have now is everything I’ve ever wished for. Two boys who still love to snuggle on my lap and appreciate life’s simple pleasures, like gazing at the moon or marveling at a stunning sunset. Each son gives me special moments that I cherish, and they are blossoming into intelligent, compassionate young men who will contribute greatly to the world.
Yet, life is different now, isn’t it? You’re growing up, and I understand you don’t rely on me as much as you once did. Your bond with your brother is strong, and I know you can’t imagine life without him.
Our days are busier now. There’s no time for sleeping in anymore. Breakfast has shifted to in front of the TV, and then it’s off to school. When you return, I’m often preoccupied with work, house chores, reminding you about homework, and urging your brother to tidy up his endless messes, all while preparing for the next day.
While there is love and connection in our lives, it feels different. Our world no longer revolves around each other as it once did. You’ll never have all of me again the way you did back then. The richness in our lives is beautiful, but in some ways, it feels like a loss.
When I was expecting your brother, I had a fear I rarely shared. I worried about losing us. It consumed my thoughts in unexpected ways. Though I wanted your brother with all my heart, I couldn’t shake the anxiety about the changes ahead.
However, once he was born, all that fear melted away. I fell deeply in love with him, realizing I had enough love for both of you. I called it my “boy love,” and it knows no limits. I reassured myself that nothing was truly lost when your brother arrived. In many ways, everything is just as it should be.
Yet, I can’t deny that I sometimes find myself yearning for those earlier days, questioning how something so special could simply vanish. The bond between a mother and her first child — how can that ever be duplicated? How can one truly move on from the intimacy, the focused attention, that moment in time when your child was your entire universe?
Perhaps you never fully recover from that sense of loss. It may not be something that crosses your mind every day, nor something you obsess over as you might expect. But it is still a loss, one that can, at times, pierce your heart.
There are moments when I think motherhood is filled with such losses, and perhaps all I can do is learn to live with it.
Yet, occasionally, I’ll think back — I’ll recall the little things, like your beautiful golden curls perfectly falling in the back of your head. Or how you used to ask me to carry you to bed, laughing like you were a sack of potatoes, while your tiny hand brushed against my lips.
Sometimes, the smallest details come rushing back, and I long for those days with an ache that hurts deeply. I still miss it. I still miss us. And perhaps that longing will never fade.