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I Cherish My Growing Kids, Yet I Grieve the Baby Years
by Sarah Jenkins
Jan. 22, 2023
The words struck me hard, like a punch to the gut. “I never expected that watching my kids grow up would feel like losing someone,” shared a mother in a heartfelt confession. “It’s as if my little ones vanished and now I’m left with these unfamiliar school-aged children. Sometimes I find myself in tears, mourning the babies they once were, knowing I’ll never see them again. I was much better with babies.”
I sat at my desk, my hands trembling. Tears welled up in my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. A profound emptiness surged within me — an ache I’d always felt but never acknowledged. Perhaps I was afraid, or perhaps I simply lacked the courage to confront it.
I was better with babies. Now, as I look at my children—ages 9, 7, and 5—I can’t help but wonder where my babies have gone.
Don’t misunderstand me; I love my kids deeply. They are bright, hilarious, and full of life. My oldest enjoys our outings, sharing his thoughts with enthusiasm. He found The Force Awakens captivating but disagreed with my prediction of its ending. He’s even on board with buying Valentine’s Day hand towels embellished with glitter. My 7-year-old has a gentle heart, caring for all living things, from his two beta fish to a worm farm and various bugs he collects outside. He diligently waters our plants each day. Meanwhile, my youngest draws eccentric pictures and insists on sleeping with a pile of stuffed animals every night.
They are growing up, developing their own ideas and opinions to share. Not long ago, I would have done anything to gain insight into those thoughts, to see the people they were evolving into beyond the baby babble. Yet now that they are here, I often feel lost, unsure of how to engage with these energetic, Lego-launching, frog-catching kids. I knew babies intimately: their snug weight, the way they nestled against me. I could sense when they were tired or hungry, and I knew how to comfort them. Their cries had clear meanings, never manipulative.
Now, when they cry, I find myself thinking they’re just spoiled, throwing tantrums over wanting more toys. Or that they’re upset because they don’t want to go to the store. I’m left confused, questioning if they genuinely need something, if my compassion should extend further. But I struggle to understand what they truly want anymore. The simple fixes of cuddles and milk don’t seem to suffice.
This confusion is painful. I once was the center of their universe, but now, I am not. Even my youngest prefers to sleep with their father most nights, and it stings to realize I’m no longer their whole world. We all know children must grow, and we want them to thrive. We yearn for conversations about Star Wars, to discover our child dislikes pizza, and to engage in meaningful discussions about vital issues like politics and race relations. We want to witness the panorama of their development and learn their preferences, like their newfound love for The Ramones over Spoon. We wouldn’t trade that for anything.
But I loved the baby phase. I cherished holding them close, feeling their gentle breaths against my neck, and the soothing rhythm of their breathing. I adored breastfeeding, our magical remedy for everything—hunger, sleep, comfort, and connection. I relished those baby milestones: the first wobbly steps, the garbled sounds of their first words. I was constantly hugging, kissing, and loving them, knowing that this kind of love would one day become rare.
But those babies are gone. They will never be those simple, cuddly beings I could carry around again. Loving them has grown more complex, and it will never return to that simplicity. I grieve for the babies they once were, for their lightweight forms in my arms and their tiny hands grasping my neck. I could always make things better then. Now, their worries have grown larger and only intensify as they age. Just the other day, my 5-year-old asked, with fear in his eyes, if I was going to die soon—I longed for the days of playful innocence, like watching Sesame Street together.
I keep a memento: a stuffed Brobee, remnants of my middle child’s Yo Gabba Gabba obsession. He no longer pays attention to the toy, tossing it aside, but I pick it up, dust it off, and clutch its small green form to my heart. As if a simple stuffed animal could ease a mother’s grief over watching her children grow. As if a forgotten toy could heal the ache in my soul.
I love my sons deeply. I wouldn’t change them for anything. Yet, I can simultaneously treasure them and mourn the little ones they used to be. I can stand in their room, surrounded by the remnants of their boyhood, holding Brobee close, and allow myself to cry.