I think moms should have a private celebration for their youngest child's birthday.
A silent battle cry for celebrating the journey of motherhood -- in all its endings and beginnings.
It is the eve of my youngest son’s birthday, and over the last four years, on this day, I have celebrated in private.
Usually just with a quiet cup of coffee by myself in the morning.
Like right now.
Except I guess I’m celebrating early — and no longer by myself, since I’m telling you all about it.
Here’s the thing: the day my youngest child, my only son, turned 10, I had this realization that it had been 10 years since I had given birth.
And believe me, there was a lot packed into those 10 years.
Of course, as a mother, my natural instinct is to tell you all of the things that happened to him in those 10 years.
He was perfect every step of the way, naturally.
He was such a good baby and showed signs of being artistic before he was even a year old.
He struggled to talk as quickly and clearly as other toddlers.
He got super temperamental at the age of three.
He also showed signs of being a sarcastic smart-ass just like his dad — even without words.
When he was four, we almost lost him, and those days will stay with me forever.
I homeschooled him through fourth grade and know exactly how to explain things to him so that he will understand.
Once he understands something, he can race through it at the speed of light.
He grew taller than me last year…
Yes, it’s true, a lot has happened to him in the last 14 years, and I am so lucky to have watched him grow.
But I’ve grown too, dammit.
Motherhood is a milestone too
Yes, as mothers, it’s natural for us to mark each of our babies’ milestones.
We cheer them on from the sidelines and get to know them in a deeply personal way other people will never get to know them. At least, that’s how it has felt for me.
My entire mission in motherhood has been to fully know my children and who they are as tiny humans, so that I could guide them into life fully embodying who they are.
(You know, since I spent 2.5 decades being who everyone else wanted me to be.)
However, what I think often happens is that we get so busy cheering them on, we forget to give ourselves a pat on the back.
We neglect the realization that while they were growing, so were we.
We went from an individual, singular vessel into a human-generating, life-giving machine — and I don’t think that gets the credit it deserves.
In order to become mothers, we let go of old, outdated versions of ourselves in order to learn to be an entirely new version of a person we’ve never met.
We start over.
We learn new things — and quickly.
We fail. So much.
And when our youngest child hits their milestones, so do we.
Sure, I suppose celebrating the first child’s birthday makes more sense in many ways. But as someone who absolutely struggled with being physically limited due to pregnancy, I celebrate the last one.
Plus, my first child situation is kind of blurry, since I took on helping my husband raise his kids full-time before I started churning out my own.
It’s been 14 years since I last gave birth
Either way, there is a celebration in the knowing that I have given birth for the last time… almost 14 years ago today.
Maybe it’s a celebration, maybe it’s a grieving. Chances are, it’s a little bit of both.
As much as I didn’t love the bulkiness of pregnancy, I was truly, absolutely obsessed with giving birth.
Sure, I pooped in front of my husband and a team of nurses.
Yes, it was painful at times.
But meeting my baby?
Seeing this tiny human who I already knew and getting to finally see their face with my own eyes?
There’s nothing like it.
I could live those days over and over again.
We also never knew the sex of our children before they were born.
So, while I knew the tiny human inside of me by temperament and kicking tendencies (my daughter now making her way toward black belt in karate makes perfect sense), they didn’t have a name until I held them in my arms and gave it to them.
In the hospital room, alone with my babies, we bonded before the outside world could interfere.
Plus, people brought me food and did my dishes for perhaps the last time in my entire life. (Just kidding — my husband totally holds his own, and my kids are learning their way around the kitchen too.)
But still… that hospital room service. It was pretty great.
Of course, I must be slightly romanticizing the entire thing because there were also uterus massages and needle pokes.
It’s a give and take.
Today I celebrate and grieve.
Yes, I celebrate my youngest child’s birthday in private — quietly, to myself.
For it marks the closing of a chapter I was so fortunate to get to open.
So many never get the chance, even though they so badly want to.
I have been blessed, and healed, and broken open…
And I’ll never do it again.
Not the way it’s already been done.
I am not the woman I was on day one.
I am not the mom I was on day one.
I celebrate the successes, and I grieve that today marks the beginning of an end.
I celebrate the freedom my body has had in the last 14 years, and I mourn that I’ll never be able to keep them that safe and close to my body ever again.
Either way, I did it.
And that, on its own, feels worth celebrating.