MckMama’s post really struck a chord in me. She put into words what I’ve felt for years.
I don’t like change. I’m not fond of moving forward. With just about anything.
My mom says I cried at my second birthday because I didn’t want to get older. I’ve cried at every single birthday my children have had. As I hear and sing “Happy Birthday,” my throat tightens and my chest constricts. My eyes water and my voice trembles.
And I cry.
I don’t want to mark another passing year.
I don’t want them to grow older.
I don’t want them to get bigger.
It kills me to look at old pictures and home movies. I miss their tiny hands, their little faces. I miss the smell of their breath; their upturned noses. I miss their baby laughs.
Last night as I cried, Hubs tried to comfort me. He mentioned having another baby. While that would be wonderful, it’s not what I want.
I want my babies to be babies again.
I want to hold Christian, as a baby, again.
I want to hold Cullen, as a baby, again.
This morning as Cavan fussed, I held his sturdy, strong little body to mine, and thought, “I’m going to miss this so much.”
I stroked his bald little head, and tried to burn into my memory the feel of his peach fuzz. I breathed in his scent and hoped someday, years from now, I’ll be able to remember this moment and smell him all over again. I want to remember the feel of his head in the crook of my elbow. I want to remember the feel of his soft little bottom in my hand. I want to remember how he waves his arms and kicks his legs when he sees me. I want to remember how he opens his mouth wide and bites my cheek with his toothless gums when I snuggle him. I hope I remember that his beautiful skin is the softest thing God ever created.
This morning as he looked out the window at the rain, I tried to memorize each curve of his profile, storing it away in my mind, exactly how he looked at that moment.
But the fact is, I won’t.
Years from now as I cheer them on at their volleyball and baseball games, as I sit in the audience at their high school and college graduations, as I watch them speak their wedding vows and cradle their own babies, it won’t all come back to me.
I won’t recall just the way their voices sound; I won’t recall the way Christian always asks about what I did when I was little; I won’t recall snuggling with Cullen on the couch as it rains; I won’t recall the way all three of them talk and sing in the car, trying to drown each other out; I won’t be able to feel a little body next to mine, or their hair against my lips, their scent filling my nose.
And that’s what hurts so much.
So I cry.