As I reflect on our early days, I often remember the small moments that defined our time together. We would sleep in without a care, enjoy breakfast spread across the rug, and spontaneously step outside to savor the crispness of a spring morning. You nestled in the baby carrier, both of us enveloped in my oversized coat, while I pointed out the different trees or imagined whimsical shapes in the clouds—snowmen, unicorns, or even whipped cream.
And how could I forget our quest to find the moon, your absolute favorite? We affectionately called it the “day moon.” Do you recall those adventures?
When we returned home, our routine was simple and fulfilling. We would snuggle on the couch, continuing our conversations before diving into a book, completing a puzzle, or creating a drawing together—all in our cozy little apartment, with no distractions. Just a mother and her toddler, inseparable and deeply in love.
Of course, I know my memories gloss over the challenges: your epic toddler tantrums, your strong-willed nature, and your reluctance to play alone, which left me craving a moment of solitude. I also tend to forget how your restless nights took a toll on my own sleep, leaving me exhausted, stressed, and overwhelmed.
There’s a summer I hardly recall—the one when you were two and a half—when the rigors of early motherhood overwhelmed me, leading to bouts of late-onset postpartum anxiety and daily panic attacks. But that’s behind me now. What lingers are the memories, both delightful and painful, and they leave me yearning for the past. I miss those days. I miss us.
I acknowledge that my life now is filled with everything I’ve ever wanted: two boys who still seek out cuddles, who find joy in simple pleasures like the moon or a breathtaking sunset. I cherish the special time I share with each of them as they grow into intelligent, compassionate individuals who contribute to the world.
Yet, life has transformed. You’re growing up, and I see that you don’t need me as much as you once did. Your bond with your brother is unbreakable, and the rhythm of our days has shifted. Mornings often pass in a rush, with breakfast in front of the TV instead of on the rug, and our afternoons are filled with work, chores, and reminders about homework and tidying up.
Despite the love and connection we share, it’s not the same. Our lives no longer revolve around each other like they did. You will never have all of me again in the way you did back then. While the fullness of our current lives is inspiring, it also feels like a subtle loss.
During my pregnancy with your brother, I harbored a fear I rarely voiced: the fear of losing what we had. Even though I longed for him, I worried about how our relationship would change. But when he arrived, those fears melted away. I quickly fell in love with him and realized my capacity for love had expanded, encompassing both of you. I reassured myself that I hadn’t lost anything; rather, our lives had grown into something beautiful.
Still, there are moments I find myself longing for those intimate days, pondering how such a unique bond could fade so quickly. The connection between a mother and her first child—how can it ever be replicated? How do you reconcile the absence of that deep attentiveness and that time when your world revolved around just one child?
Perhaps this is a loss that doesn’t fully heal. It’s not something I dwell on daily, but it’s a lingering ache that can still catch me off guard. Motherhood often feels like navigating a series of losses, and perhaps all I can do is learn to adapt.
Oh, how I remember the little details: your golden curls, the way you’d request to be carried to bed like a sack of potatoes, laughing and gently touching my lips with your free hand. Sometimes these memories flood back, and the longing for those days becomes almost unbearable. I still miss it. I still miss us. And perhaps that feeling will always remain.
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In summary, the nostalgia for early days with my first child is a bittersweet reminder of the unique bond we shared, reflecting on how motherhood evolves and how love expands yet alters.
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