The end is approaching, and I can sense it.
We’ve already parted ways with the bottle, the Boppy, and the baby carriers. My breast pump now sits untouched at the back of the closet, its rhythmic whomp-whomp echoing in my memories. The light signaling a new chapter isn’t just a distant glimmer; it’s shining brightly, heralding the dawn of a new phase. We’re almost there—so close to leaving behind the baby years.
To an outsider, it might seem like we still have ample time; my youngest is still very much a baby, and my oldest doesn’t start school until the fall. Yet, deep down, I can feel the inevitable change. My little girl is already insisting on choosing her outfits, eager to lend a hand with the laundry, and discovering the thrill of coloring on walls instead of paper. Toddlerhood has arrived, bringing both delightful moments and new challenges. While sorting laundry, I frequently find myself pausing to differentiate between my socks and my son’s—when did his feet grow so large?
Indeed, the next stage of motherhood is on the horizon. It should evoke a sense of relief, right? After all, a certain reverence is often given to those navigating the trials of early childhood. “Oh, I remember those days,” they say, acknowledging our tired eyes, our messy attire, and our fragile grip on sanity. They understand the struggle, recalling sleepless nights, never-ending colds, and the relentless cycle of feeding and diaper changes—days where the weight of responsibility feels like it might crush us.
“Just hang in there. It gets better,” they offer with comforting words and a gentle pat.
Yet here I am, standing at the brink of “better,” filled with the promise of uninterrupted sleep, leisurely showers, and the luxury of pursuing personal interests—concepts that feel almost alien. Still, I find myself clinging to the life I know—the baby years—with all their overwhelming demands. Just a little longer, I think. I crave that desperate need from my children for a bit more time.
I even proposed the idea of welcoming a third child to my partner—an idea he kindly but firmly shot down. I understand his perspective; he recognizes that my desire stems more from a fear of change than an actual wish to remain in this phase. This has undoubtedly been the most challenging chapter of my life, demanding more from me than I believed possible. I’ve learned to function in a state of exhaustion, scraping by each day until I can collapse into bed, only to rise and do it all again the next morning. Yet, soon enough, there will be space for more.
Perhaps, if I’m truly honest, that’s what frightens me most: the journey of rediscovering myself beyond the role of mother. Engaging in dreams and aspirations again, rather than solely focusing on the needs of little ones. Losing the justifications for neglecting my own identity.
“Roots and wings” is my mantra while navigating motherhood—a reminder that all my nurturing and care aim to prepare my children for independence and success. But maybe this mantra holds a promise for me too. Roots and wings, dear mother. This existence with young children is not the entirety of my story. My roots run deeper than this moment. There was a version of me prior to motherhood, and I will find her again.
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Summary:
The article explores the emotional journey of a mother approaching the end of the baby years. While she anticipates the relief and freedom that comes with the next phase of motherhood, she grapples with the fear of change and the challenges of rediscovering her identity beyond being a mother. Ultimately, she reflects on the importance of nurturing her children while also reclaiming her sense of self.
Keyphrase: Transition from infancy
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