This is a milestone for me. As a mother, I’ve just reached a significant point: it’s the first time in nearly two years that I don’t have a baby in the house. Tomorrow, my youngest son will celebrate his second birthday. My three boys are all spaced just 20 months apart, meaning every time one of them turned two, we always had another little one in the mix. After six years filled with pregnancies, nursing, and the challenges of newborns, I’ve finally had a break. It’s been a year since I’ve needed a breast or bottle.
Lately, I find myself glancing around, sensing something is missing. I can’t help but wander into the infant section at Target, only to swiftly bypass the pacifiers, swaddle blankets, and bottles—each time, a lump forms in my throat. Those days are over.
Earlier this week, I ventured into my grandmother’s basement to collect bins overflowing with baby clothes, now destined for my soon-to-arrive nephew. I paused at a soft hospital-issued onesie, memories flooding back. Were they ever really that small?
As I prepare breakfast for my other sons, my youngest zooms by, a blur of fleece pajamas and tousled blond hair. I recognize those pajamas—navy blue and orange with playful soccer balls—size 2T. They always fit the toddler who awaited his baby brother’s arrival. My heart aches, instinctively searching for the newborn who seems to linger just out of reach.
Instead, I find him—my littlest boy. He wraps his arms around my neck in a warm embrace, sits beside me, and holds my hand. His hair still has that wispy softness, and when he sleeps, his face mirrors the grainy ultrasound photo from long ago.
But now, his language blooms with unexpected clarity. His chubby toddler thighs fill my lap, and he helps himself to a cup of water and brushes his own teeth. I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, startled by the reflection of a child too big to carry. It feels almost awkward to gather him against my chest.
These small yet monumental moments seemed to slip by unnoticed during the first two rounds of motherhood, muted by the cries of newborns and the demands of my firstborn. Now that there’s no new addition to shift the focus, he remains my baby. Yet, he will be two soon. Too soon.
His entrance into the world was premature, arriving four days before the planned C-section, a rush of amniotic fluid signaling his dramatic arrival. Everything has flown by at an alarming pace, often before we felt truly ready.
I find myself longing for the postpartum ward of the hospital—the soft hues, the long corridors, and the comforting trays of food served by attentive nurses. And of course, the tiny pink infant, swaddled in the mobile bassinet or cradled in my grateful arms.
Without a newborn, I feel somewhat lost, as if I don’t fully recognize myself. We’ve been racing toward two with a sense of urgency—an impatience, because ’22’ and ’23’ months are just too cumbersome to articulate. The inevitable passage of time looms, and as my sons grow, the gap widens between their needs and my capabilities. Their world will expand beyond the confines of our home, while I remain tethered to the smallness of life—those tiny hands, the daily challenges, and the mundane moments we share.
Yes, I feel bound to my children, yet anchored as well. However, as the ties begin to loosen, I wonder what will hold me steady. Just recently, while enjoying a rare afternoon in Manhattan, I climbed the subway steps only to find myself disoriented in the crowd, feeling as if I were being tossed about like a plastic bag in the wind. I worry that once they are grown, I might not recognize myself at all.
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In summary, as my youngest son approaches his second birthday, I find myself reflecting on the bittersweet passage of time. The transition from babyhood to toddlerhood brings a mix of nostalgia and uncertainty, leaving me both anchored by my children and unsure of what lies ahead.