Have you ever read Peter Pan? To be honest, I hadn't until this summer. I started it in the middle of a fancy toy shop in Cape Cod and promptly burst into tears. I think John made a blanket proclamation that I wasn't to read, ever again. Because emotions.
"All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!' This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end." -Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie
You can see where I'm going with this.
It's nap time as I write this post. I just rocked the baby into sleepy submission (Judah already sound asleep), and now I'm free for a few brief hours to catch up on chores, pay bills, maybe binge on What's Up Moms, sneak the last few Christmas M&Ms. I should be happy for a break, as I usually am, but on this day I'm a little sad.
In a month and a day, my sweet Abram will be one year old. I was warned by many a mom that the second child's first year flies by fast. I believed them all; I knew it would. But what I didn't understand was how fast they really meant. If there is something faster than the speed of light, its that of the first year of your second baby.
On the day of Abram's birth, my contractions began in early morning on a day we expected an epic snowstorm. Once we were sure I was in labor, we passed three or four accidents on the way to the hospital and prayed the whole time I was far enough along for us to be admitted so that we wouldn't have to trudge home and repeat the trip when things (labor and weather) were even worse. Thankfully, Abram was just a six hour labor and we stayed safe and sound at the hospital.
The snow continued to fall throughout the weekend. I remember kissing my new Abram's soft pile of newborn hair as I watched the snow cover cars parked outside. I remember sniffing his little face. Nothing smells or feels quite like your fresh, just-hours-old-out-of-the-womb baby.
As a newborn, Abram did all the normal things. He slept okay. He packed on weight like every feeding was Thanksgiving Day. He tolerated curious poking and prodding from his big brother. And then, eight weeks in, he got really sick. His messy diapers were suddenly horrible. Nursing became difficult. He screamed constantly, especially at night. All night. We figured out pretty fast, thankfully before his growth declined, that Abram had a cow protein allergy. Determined to keep nursing, I stopped eating all the things that made him sick. Goodbye, pizza and ice cream- a small, temporary sacrifice.
Abram improved on my new diet, but he still cried for long stretches in the evenings. John handled bedtime with Judah while I rocked Abram in the dark nursery, wrapped in a tight snuggle against my right shoulder. He settled best this way, with his face pressed gently against mine so I could nuzzle his cheek with my nose and kiss his tiny forehead until he finally relented and fell asleep.
Those first hard months are over; he has outgrown all his allergies (Hello, Pizza, Mama missed you!) and tummy troubles are over. But Abram still requires his bedtime rock-and-kiss routine before naps and bedtime. He holds his "baby," one of those giraffe stuffed animals with the pacifier sewn to it's head, and rests his face between my cheek and my shoulder as I sway with him, kiss his face, smell his baby boy scent, and murmur little "I love you's" before tipping him into his crib.
Today, as I danced our sleepy dance, I wistfully remembered that these days are numbered. I've been here before. I know they don't last.
There will come a day when he doesn't want or need me to sway with him and kiss him as he falls asleep. Goodness, there are probably days ahead when he doesn't want my kisses at all! There will come a time when he acts more like his big brother and less like my Little One. There will be years when both Judah and Abram won't need me for nearly as much as they do now; there will come a day when I will be "out of a job" as their stay-at-home Mama.
There's a happy sadness to this. Joy and pride as both my sons grow into independent, creative free-thinkers. With that, a grief-filled farewell to each cherished moment, to see them need me less and less, to know my time of baby drool and snuggles while watching Paw Patrol is waning.
I count myself blessed that I get to give my baby his daily nap time kisses . . . and now, as I finish typing and wiping away my sappy Mama tears because motherhood has made me emotional, I hear him crying when he should be sleeping. Today, I gratefully dash upstairs to offer Abram one more kiss goodnight.
"All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!' This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end." -Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie
You can see where I'm going with this.
In a month and a day, my sweet Abram will be one year old. I was warned by many a mom that the second child's first year flies by fast. I believed them all; I knew it would. But what I didn't understand was how fast they really meant. If there is something faster than the speed of light, its that of the first year of your second baby.
On the day of Abram's birth, my contractions began in early morning on a day we expected an epic snowstorm. Once we were sure I was in labor, we passed three or four accidents on the way to the hospital and prayed the whole time I was far enough along for us to be admitted so that we wouldn't have to trudge home and repeat the trip when things (labor and weather) were even worse. Thankfully, Abram was just a six hour labor and we stayed safe and sound at the hospital.
The snow continued to fall throughout the weekend. I remember kissing my new Abram's soft pile of newborn hair as I watched the snow cover cars parked outside. I remember sniffing his little face. Nothing smells or feels quite like your fresh, just-hours-old-out-of-the-womb baby.
As a newborn, Abram did all the normal things. He slept okay. He packed on weight like every feeding was Thanksgiving Day. He tolerated curious poking and prodding from his big brother. And then, eight weeks in, he got really sick. His messy diapers were suddenly horrible. Nursing became difficult. He screamed constantly, especially at night. All night. We figured out pretty fast, thankfully before his growth declined, that Abram had a cow protein allergy. Determined to keep nursing, I stopped eating all the things that made him sick. Goodbye, pizza and ice cream- a small, temporary sacrifice.
Those first hard months are over; he has outgrown all his allergies (Hello, Pizza, Mama missed you!) and tummy troubles are over. But Abram still requires his bedtime rock-and-kiss routine before naps and bedtime. He holds his "baby," one of those giraffe stuffed animals with the pacifier sewn to it's head, and rests his face between my cheek and my shoulder as I sway with him, kiss his face, smell his baby boy scent, and murmur little "I love you's" before tipping him into his crib.
Today, as I danced our sleepy dance, I wistfully remembered that these days are numbered. I've been here before. I know they don't last.
There will come a day when he doesn't want or need me to sway with him and kiss him as he falls asleep. Goodness, there are probably days ahead when he doesn't want my kisses at all! There will come a time when he acts more like his big brother and less like my Little One. There will be years when both Judah and Abram won't need me for nearly as much as they do now; there will come a day when I will be "out of a job" as their stay-at-home Mama.
I count myself blessed that I get to give my baby his daily nap time kisses . . . and now, as I finish typing and wiping away my sappy Mama tears because motherhood has made me emotional, I hear him crying when he should be sleeping. Today, I gratefully dash upstairs to offer Abram one more kiss goodnight.
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