One year.

Summary

The author reflects on the emotional journey of motherhood, grappling with the bittersweet nature of watching her last child grow and the impending end of an era of nurturing her children.

Abstract

The article titled "One year." delves into the author's personal experience of the complex emotions that accompany the growth of her last child. She expresses a profound sense of sadness as she acknowledges the daily departures from the child's previous stages of development. The author recalls the intense and intimate moments of the early days of motherhood, now lost to time, and struggles with the reality that these experiences will not return. Despite the joy of her four children, she mourns the inevitable independence they gain as they grow. The article is a raw expression of the intertwined grief and joy of motherhood, a call for self-forgiveness, and an acknowledgment of the diverse experiences of parenthood, including loss and longing.

Opinions

The author feels an acute sense of grief with the realization that every day her child grows is a farewell to his younger self.
She believes that the transformation of her children from dependent infants to independent beings is both necessary and painful.
The author acknowledges the difficulty of understanding the advice about the fleeting nature of childhood before experiencing it firsthand.
She reflects on the physical and emotional labor of carrying and nursing her children, recognizing it as a significant chapter of her life that may be closing.
The author expresses gratitude for her children while simultaneously holding space for the pain of others who have experienced loss and infertility.
She admits to feeling overwhelmed during this last year, leading to missed opportunities to fully appreciate the fleeting moments of her child's infancy.
The author seeks forgiveness for the moments lost to distraction and the necessity of managing life's challenges.
She questions whether forgiveness can alleviate the pain of lost time and irretrievable experiences.
The article serves as an outreach to connect with others who might share similar feelings, offering solidarity and the reminder that they are not alone in their emotional journey.

I was not prepared for this.

No one prepared me for this sadness, that every day he grows is goodbye to the smallness that was him yesterday.

It is unsettling. Thirteen years of giving my body over to the normal yet incomprehensible work of growing and feeding babies coming to an end, perhaps.

Maybe they tried to prepare me — long days, short years, and all that. If they had, what good would it have done? I would not have understood. Could not have understood. Now, I see that motherhood is grief and joy always mingled together, and sometimes the grief wins.

He is still baby for a little longer. He still rolls his eyes upon first latch, sucks two fingers when I lay him down to sleep. But those exquisite and terrible early days of feeding and snuggling and hunger and tears are gone.

I try to recreate them, lying in bed, with this last baby on my belly, remembering skin-to-skin and searching mouth and sleepy smiles. He crawls off and sits up and laughs and fusses because what he really needs is to sleep in his own bed, without me.

Each day, each hour, he is becoming more independent and less an appendage of me. As he should be. But it hurts. Oh, God, it hurts.

And I think, I should be grateful! Four beautiful children conceived in love and carried to term and birthed from my body. A miracle, each one. A unique expression of God’s image. I don’t take for granted that so many have not had this gift. That the story for some is one of waiting and hoping and loss. I remember you, today, and I offer up a groan of a prayer for the pain I do not know.

My pain, though it may not hold a candle to yours, feels very real today. In trying to survive this last year, this most trying year of my thirty-six, I fear I didn’t savor it. How many moments are gone forever because I was too distracted trying to solve one thousand intermingled problems?

I remember the words of Nikita Gill that my sweet friend read to me over Marco Polo. “Forgive yourself for everything you broke when you were trying to survive.”

I can forgive myself, I think. But will that heal the pain? If I forgive myself seventy times seven times, will that bring back even one moment of newborn bliss?

I hesitate to share this weightiness with you. But here I am. Wanting to be known, as we all do. And wanting to tell someone that they are not alone. Is it you?

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