January 14, 2013 | Category: four
You guys, baby Paul turned one yesterday.
It was a standard Sunday by all accounts, complete with early service church and “clean the fridge out” leftover lunch. In the evening, we went to neighborhood dinner, just like we always do at 5:30pm. The only difference was that for dessert, we celebrated with a fantastic rendition of Happy Birthday and some amazing cupcakes picked up from the store down the street.
It was a perfect and special day, even if it didn’t include too much fanfare.
(also worth noting, I’m really bad at taking video, but it’s cute regardless)
And if I’m being honest with myself, this is “my baby is turning one” thing is a whole lot harder than I thought it would be. In the past, since I knew we would probably have four kids, I’ve never really let myself mourned the end to the first year. I could always hush my emotions with “there will be more, this isn’t the end” type mentality.
But this time, it’s done. The first year of my last baby is complete.
I was whining to Michael about it a few days back, and was all “I can’t believe Paul is almost one, and we’re rally done! I’ll never be pregnant again, never breastfeed again, and never swaddle another (one of my) babies again.
And his responds: “I’m so glad we’re done! You’ll never be pregnant again, you’ll never breastfeed again, and we’ll never have to care for an infant again.”
To this, I shrug my shoulders, and I know he’s probably right. Pregnancy and life with a newborn is hard. And I know I’m reminiscing the past through rose colored glasses.
But it’s still OK to mourning just a little bit, right?