When the first time is the last time

The Little One is 13 weeks today and celebrated by giving us her first laugh. A proper,  belly chuckle.

It left me feeling a little sad. In all likelihood,  Little is our last.  My heart says, “Oh, just one more baby.” My hormones agree.  My husband doesn’t.  My head thinks he *might* be right.  I couldn’t do four children under six on my own. I’d need some sort of help. My head can’t get itself around the idea of someone being in our home all day every day. The ‘help’ would feel like a cuckoo.

With each first for Little, it’s a last for me and I can’t identify why it is that I’m so reluctant to let this chapter of my life go.  Letting go has never bothered me before. Career that I worked so hard to build? Yeah,  whatever,  see you later. Single life? Single who? 

But the idea of never feeling my baby kick inside me, of feeling the love flow during feeds in the dead of night and – yes – even the thought of never going through labour again is something I just can’t come to terms with.

I guess the truth of the matter is that despite the exhaustion, the craving for ‘me time’ that never appears,  the desire to just go for a wee on my own,  I’m not ready.  I’m not ready to admit that Little will be the last and my newborn days are done.

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When the first time is the last time

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