I paused when I received the message: “I’m available next week if you’d like to go out for a while. I can watch Ava.” I was aware this moment would arrive, but I wasn’t prepared. The thought of leaving my baby behind felt unsettling. Admitting my reluctance would require a level of courage that I wasn’t sure I possessed.
Ava is my third and final child. Choosing to have her was a challenging decision, especially as my partner and I are both advancing in age, and we already have two independent boys, ages 7 and 9. After much consideration, we decided to embrace the joy of infancy once more, and I have never regretted that choice. My entire pregnancy was a delightful experience, right up until the final, slightly uncomfortable days before her arrival.
The week leading up to Ava’s birth brought unusually warm weather to New Jersey. Each day, I ventured out for walks around the neighborhood, hoping to induce labor naturally. Yet, as I strolled along the familiar sidewalks, I realized my efforts were half-hearted. I yearned to feel the onset of labor pains, but instead, I felt a deep pang of sadness. The end of my pregnancy signified that I would soon have to share my baby with the world.
In my previous pregnancies, this wasn’t an issue. In fact, I often say my boys are gifts to the world. They are among the happiest children you could meet, spreading joy and kindness wherever they go. As babies, they would beam at strangers in the supermarket, eliciting smiles in return. I took immense pride in how they brought happiness to others.
However, Ava feels distinct. She is my personal gift, and I’m grappling with how to convey that to others. This is not an easy task.
In my late twenties, a wise friend told me that the best part of turning 30 was shedding the concern of others’ opinions and pursuing what you truly want. I eagerly anticipated my 30th birthday, hoping to embrace this newfound confidence. Unfortunately, that milestone came and went without the expected change. Now, as I approach my late thirties, I feel I am inching closer to that freedom. Ava feels like a test of my resolve.
This time, I truly recognize that the baby stage is fleeting. On the eighth day of Ava’s life, her umbilical cord fell off, and I was overcome with emotion, realizing she was growing. When she stirs for a late-night feeding, I cherish the scent of her skin and the quiet moments we share. As she wraps her tiny fingers around my thumb, I sense her desire to hold on to the last nine months we spent together. When she presses her legs against my still-soft abdomen, my heart swells with love. I want these moments to last forever. Am I being unreasonable?
With my first two children, I was so overwhelmed by the demands of motherhood that I couldn’t fathom savoring sleepless nights. Back then, an offer for babysitting would have thrilled me. I craved the independence that came from stepping away for a bit. This time, however, everything feels different, and I want to express that.
Ultimately, I bought myself some time and told my friend I would go out the next week, hoping that a little distance would change my feelings. I’m doubtful it will.
Who knows? Perhaps as I celebrate my 40th birthday in a few years, I will finally possess the courage to let others hold my baby.
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Summary
The author reflects on the bittersweet feelings associated with the end of the baby stage, particularly with her third child, Ava. Unlike her previous experiences, she finds it difficult to part with the intimate moments and connection of infancy, revealing her emotional struggle to balance personal desires with societal expectations.
Keyphrase: “baby stage reluctance”
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