I’m pretty opinionated. Which I don’t think is necessarily a bad thing. I don’t even thing it’s a bad thing to be vocal about my opinions. But I’m not never-changing. My opinions evolve as I learn more. Or even just when the mood strikes. So, I very often find myself in a sucky predicament: Eating Crow. A person’s attitude in regards to their youngest child is definitely such a circumstance.
I haven’t decided if I’m ok with being done with having kids. I just can’t get enough of the little hands and the little toes. My youngest isn’t one yet. She’s… ya know… the sweetest thing that God ever thought to make. My husband, on the other hand, is eagerly anticipating the appointment to mutilate his junk and rip the opportunity for baby snuggles from my grasp forever. *sigh* But I digress. This may be my last baby. So I find myself overwhelmed with emotions with this little sweetie. Which makes me the kind of mom that I’ve previously talked a LOT of smack about. I mean a LOT.
I’ve always said that if you think your kid is the best, you’re blind. Babies are mostly slugs until they get some personality and are a bit more durable. It’s a fact. Let’s just admit that. They’re basically all the same and pretty much useless as a whole. Except mine. They’re amazing. … See? See how that works? I learned more and had some kids, and now I think differently. But the little hands! And the toes! I was utterly in love with my first two children, too; I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. But I knew I was going to have more kids and more opportunities for all the best parts of parenting.
Ok, so this is potentially my last baby. So it’s my last opportunity to do a lot of things. It’s the last time I’ll have a baby snuggle in on my chest and fall asleep. It’s the last time I’ll have to wake up in the middle of the night and get such private bonding. And it’ll be the last time I wake up and am so sleep deprived that I sob quietly as I feed a baby so I guess that’s a win. And it’ll be the last time I resent my husband his glorious 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep to the point where I secretly plot his death. So I guess that’s a win for him.
It’ll be the last time I put a baby in adorable little outfits. It’s the last time I get baby fingers grasping my finger. It’ll be the last time I blow raspberries on baby bellies. The last time I kiss baby toes. The last peek a boo games where the baby is genuinely, adorably surprised that I am, in fact, still behind my hands. So guess what I do? I kiss every toe at least three times a day. I try to get her to sleep on my chest before bed every night. I have no plans to sleep train her to sleep through the night. I play peekaboo all day. I squeeze my finger in her little hand every opportunity. I blow lots of raspberries. I put that baby in every adorable outfit I can find. (Surprise!)
The biggest change for my last child is the breastfeeding. I hate breastfeeding. I don’t like my breasts being used as a utility attachment. And I don’t get the bonding feeling from it. I think “breastfed is best” is too often used as a weapon for breast feeding moms to act superior and uppity. And breast feeding moms, therefore, often piss me off. And I don’t like seeing other women’s breasts. I don’t like to have to explain to my kids why it’s ok for breastfeeding moms to expose themselves but they can’t.
…. But this is my last chance.
My last chance to see what I’m missing and what those uppity bitches are always raving about. And, I am loathe to admit, sometimes… Not all the time… but sometimes… I feel it. That pride in being that baby’s sole source of sustenance. And the love radiating from her while she smiles up at me while she nurses. And I love her, too. So much. I had these moments with my first two, who were not exclusively breast fed, but never during the nursing. I wouldn’t say I missed out on anything with that because I did have other bonding moments. But because I know this is my last chance… I do everything I can to get as close to that baby as I can.
What got me thinking about this and has made me so emotional; what’s made me stubborn in my new feelings is something I read: “One day, you’ll put your child down and never pick them up again.” So I pick up my 5 year old. I pick up my 3 year old. I pick up my baby. And I try not to take advantage of each time. Because I don’t know when I’ll put them down and never pick them up again.
And that’s just a punch in the gut.
So, to sum up… My last child, in particular, has made me a ridiculous hypocrite. I’m a big old flip flopper and I don’t care. I’ll take a giant helping of crow.
Yeah, definitely no regrets.