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.
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.
