The night before I went into labor, obviously sensing some impending excitement, I busied myself with last minute, nesting preparations. As I tried to perform my bedtime routine, knowing full well that insomnia would make sleep elusive, I worked mechanically through the routine of washing my face and brushing my teeth. I laboriously changes into my large pajamas, and I stole a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
As I stared at my reflection I was confronted with the enormity of the situation. Like, seriously, my belly was enormous. The taunt skin stretched across my abdomen in a painful way, causing the flesh there to shine. A series of weblike veins crawled across my swollen belly similar to a bluish, purple claw, and a brown line slashed the section of my stomach in two.
A protrusion of skin stuck out in the lower part of my belly, an almost laughable reminder of what my navel used to be, and I could see the frightening changes above that let me know my milk was preparing to come in to nourish my growing infant. Yet as I looked at the apparent horror show of my body taken over by pregnancy I smiled. I gazed adoringly at the impossibly large mass of child inside me; then I touched each side of my large abdomen gingerly and with a feeling akin to reverence.
This would be the last time, I thought.
And with this realization at the forefront on my brain I tried to savor the image of myself great with child for I knew I wouldn’t see it again.
When I first became pregnant this time around I don’t think we were sure, but as time has progressed and reality has whispered to us, my husband and I are certain this will be our last child. There’s an almost melancholy sadness to the realization that you’re having your last baby. It’s a feeling of finality and a knowledge that each moment you now experience will be the last of its kind.
When I touched my 38 week, pregnant stomach that last night, I knew. This would be the last time. The last time I carried life inside me.
When I lay in the delivery room, my feet in the stirrups, and I pushed, I knew. This would be the last time. The last time I brought a life into this world.
When I heard her first shrill cry, tears came to my eyes, much like with my first child, but I also realized, this would be the last time. The last time to hear that first cry that ushers a baby into life on the outside of the womb.
When I held her naked body against my chest, when I kissed her tiny head, and when I looked into her puffy, slate gray eyes, I knew. This would be the last time. Every day with this baby would be the last of its kind, and I grappled for that revelation eagerly. I took it for what it was worth, and I held it tight.
And now, as I lay beside her. Now, as I gaze at her sleeping face. Now, as I listen to her breathe, I know it’s the last time. Each precious moment is the last time of its kind, and I will not take it for granted.
It is almost sad to realize she is my last, but I’m also grateful for the opportunity it represents. This time I know to hold her a little longer, to push off the chores a bit more. I know, now, to savor each passing moment, to praise God for every second, and to enjoy to the fullest extent each and every segment of it all.
For it will be the last.