That First Year

She’s my third baby, and I went into the newborn days knowing how quickly they would fly by. And they did. 

I wasn’t prepared for having a pandemic baby. There isn’t a how-to guide to birthing a child during a pandemic. No blogs from the Plague of Justinian about when it’s safe to go out in public. No “How to Keep Your Sanity” articles exist from the Black Death. 

I spent my pregnancy looking through social media, trying to find solace in the fact that I wasn’t alone, even though I felt alone. And then she was born, and I juggled keeping 2 active preschoolers and a baby busy while we wore masks outside, while playdates and soft play were closed and out of the question, while I didn’t feel comfortable leaving my house to go out in public most days. 

Instead we stayed in our cozy little home. And as much as I spent time feeding, playing, cuddling her, soaking up those newborn days, they vanished. I thought I could make them last longer because time felt like it had slowed down.

But suddenly, she was laughing and rolling over. Then pulling up and cruising on furniture. Saying “Mummy” and eventually getting her teeth. She wasn’t a newborn anymore, but a baby, taking interest in the world around her. 

I tried to hold onto each moment. From the middle of the night feedings, to her first steps towards toddlerhood. I documented everything. 

As I type this up, my kids are currently watching Bao. You know, the Pixar short on Disney Plus. About the mother who dreams her baby son is a dumpling and she spends hours feeding, caring, and loving him, only to eat him at the end to prevent him from leaving her with his new fiancee. Tears stream down my face because in this moment, I am that mother sobbing on the floor. And my kids, laughing on the couch at the sight of a Mummy eating her dumpling son, will someday walk out the door of our house for the last time and they won’t be here at home anymore. It’s bittersweet how quickly time flies by. 

And my goodness, her first year has flown by. My little baby isn’t so little anymore. She babbles and acts older than her age. I’ll blink and she’ll start school, and she won’t come to me for Mummy cuddles in the middle of the night. She won’t pat my back with her chubby hand as I hold her. Or pat my arm at mealtimes, babble something, and then go right back to eating. Soon, she won’t fit on my hip as I carry her around the house. It’s these everyday moments I won’t miss until they’re gone.

I look back through pictures to remember the moments I’ve forgotten. She was a cuddly newborn, always nursing and happiest right with me. And she’s loved her siblings since she met them. Her early days were spent in my arms, but tummy time on the floor was spent focusing on them running around her in circles. Now, she crawls after them, her hands and knees loudly smacking the laminate floor as she giggles and tries to keep up. 

I don’t know what the future holds for us. I don’t know what she’ll be when she grows up, what her favorite books will be, who she’ll marry or where she’ll go to school. But I know this first year is one of the sweetest ones we’ll have together. 

So as I take her last monthly photos, the first in our new house, I’m struck anew with the bittersweet. Growing old is a gift and I cherish it deeply. But it’s hard to reconcile growing older and wanting my kids to stay young. It’s hard to reconcile the first moments that overlap with the lasts. 

I am blessed to be her Mummy. She’s the perfect fit for our family, and I’m so grateful that a year ago, I got to meet her for the very first time.