In a few days, I will turn 40. That seems like such a strange thought to me. I always had this very vague notion of getting older, but it wasn’t anything more than that. Certainly not a concrete happening.
But 40 doesn’t bother me. I don’t have any encroaching thoughts that are reminiscent of midlife crises. In fact, I am very happy and satisfied with my life. I am starting a (temporary) new position at work that I like a lot. I have a wonderful husband, a safe, comfortable, and quiet house, and two kids—the joys of my life.
But two days before I turn 40, my little boy will turn 1. THAT is much harder for me.
The baby days are hard. In fact, except for two days last October, I have not gotten a full night of sleep in a year. Babies are tough physically (Cormac loves to try out his new teeth—on my skin!) and emotionally (he still needs me to hold him so much of the time). It’s hard to be productive, and part of me misses some things that I used to do—and will do again, in a different season of my life.
But oh! How I’m struggling with the passage of time. I actually mourned when Cormac’s baby milia disappeared because he was no longer a newborn. Now, as he teeters precipitously towards his first steps, I realize that he’s basically a toddler. Whereas before we kept all of our baby clothes and other paraphernalia because we had wanted a second child, I now find myself donating what he’s grown out of. Very soon, I’ll be getting rid of all his bottles because he’s moving to a new class at day care and they only use sippy cups.
Each of these “milestones” seems much more like the end of an era than the beginning of a new one. And as such, it feels like mini-deaths to be mourned. I can’t keep him a baby; nor would I want to. I love hearing him try out his first words (book!) and chasing after his sister on all fours. But I also feel a sense of loss knowing that we won’t have that newborn/baby phase ever again.
If anyone has any words of wisdom, I’m all ears.