A quiet farewell to the tiniest of days
Long before we even conceived this baby boy number two, we knew he would be the last.
Early on in our marriage, we made the decision that two kids would be our maximum. Our finances, our house, and most of all, our sanity, simply wouldn’t support more. Two felt right. I grew up with one brother, and that seemed like the perfect number. We wouldn’t be outnumbered, and we wouldn’t be changing diapers for a decade. Two was always the plan — simple, straightforward, and now, nearly complete.
But when the doctor saw me on Tuesday and told me that I’d be induced on Friday (TOMORROW!), something inside me jolted. I’d known for weeks that this would be happening, that we’d be bringing him into the world a bit earlier than expected, but it still shook me. Over the last couple of days, as the induction date loomed closer, a sense of melancholy crept in — quiet but unmistakable.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m so excited to meet this little one. We’ve been waiting for him, it seems, forever. More than a year of trying, a heartbreaking ectopic pregnancy, loss, and hope. Now, at last, we’re on the brink of welcoming him. I can’t wait to see his face. Will he have my nose, like Caleb? Will his hair be as wild as Caleb’s? It’s thrilling to think about.
And yet, there’s sadness — small but steady — in the background.
I’ll start with the most straightforward reason. I feel a quiet ache over the fact that I won’t be experiencing the natural onset of labor. I was supposed to carry him for at least two more weeks. I was supposed to sit up at night, wondering, Is that my water breaking? I was supposed to feel those early contractions and call my partner in a flurry, scrambling to the hospital like we did with Caleb. That excitement, that rush, that first time — it’s a unique experience, and I’m losing it. I’ll never have that again. It feels... unfinished somehow. And I know the induction will be fine. I know he’ll be fine. But part of me feels robbed of something — something I’ll never get back, not with this pregnancy.
Then there’s Caleb. These are our last days of just the two of us. I’m torn, wondering how to divide myself between the two of them, to give Caleb the attention and love he needs while also making room for a new baby who will depend on me in ways he can’t yet imagine. I’m scared, too — scared that Caleb will think we love him less, scared that his world will shift in ways he can’t understand. I know that one day, his brother will be his best friend, his partner in crime. But right now, he’s three. He has no idea what’s coming.
I feel sadness in the finality of it all. These are the last moments of my last pregnancy. I will never again grow another life inside me. I’ll never again feel the gentle kicks and hiccups, the quiet moments where it’s just me and my baby — a bond that no one else will share. No one else will ever feel those quiet moments where I rest my hands on my belly, waiting for that familiar flutter, that reassuring nudge. I’ll never again feel the simultaneous exhaustion and joy of the first trimester, when you’re so tired but so full of hope. I’ll never again watch my belly grow, or hear that rapid heartbeat on an ultrasound. These things — the things that are so uniquely pregnancy — they are all for the last time.
And then there’s the last newborn. This is it. The last time I will experience the magic and the pain of delivery, the first cry, the tiny body placed on my chest. I won’t do this again — the sweet, bittersweet relief of bringing a baby home, the quiet nights rocking him to sleep, the awe of watching him grow into himself. No more tiny clothes to fold, no more baby baths in the sink. No more marveling at those perfect, impossibly small fingers and toes. This is the last time.
For the last time, we tossed around names, trying on options until we found the one that felt right. For the last time, I’m out on maternity leave, able to focus solely on my boys, without the pull of work or other distractions. For the last time, we laughed about my pregnancy cravings (seriously, who craves chicken French?), made the announcement of our baby, then his gender, and now, soon, his name. For the last time, we’ll sit together in anticipation, waiting for the arrival of our last child.
And then he’ll be here, and just like that, a chapter of our lives will close. My days of pregnancy and newborns will be behind me. And while I know we will face many more beautiful moments — teaching him to read, watching him navigate life — for now, there’s this quiet sadness that hangs in the air. My childbearing years are ending, and the excitement of it all will never happen again.
But that’s okay. It’s just... this moment — right now — that I’m holding onto. This weekend, for the last time, we’ll wait for the moment that will change everything, when we catch our first glimpse of our last child. The moment our world shifts, and we begin this new chapter with all the love and uncertainty that comes with it.
No comments