It hit her most ordinarily. Not during a birthday party, folding baby clothes, or staring at old photos. No, it was in the garage after a long day, when her son had fallen asleep in the backseat. She could have woken him, nudged him to climb out, and shuffled inside like the big kid he was becoming. But something inside her said, not tonight. Tonight, she would carry him, one more time.
She slipped her arms under his growing body, felt his weight against her shoulder, and shuffled slowly up the stairs. His head rested where it used to when he was a newborn, but now his feet dangled by her knees. That’s when it hit her. This was probably the last time she could hold him like this, to carry him as her first baby. And it hurt. It hurt in that quiet, invisible way that sneaks up on parents when they realize time is sprinting past.
Seven years. That’s all it took for the nights of sleepless rocking, the car rides at 2 a.m., and the endless bottles to turn into soccer practices, chess games, and Star Wars marathons. One blink and the baby was a boy, and the boy was almost something else entirely, standing shoulder to shoulder with her, ready to leave little boyhood behind. Every year on his birthday, she cried. Not a sobbing, ugly cry, but the kind where joy and sadness tangle together until you can’t tell which is which. Gratitude for his health, his laughter, and how he still hugged her at school drop-off. And sadness too, because each birthday was another reminder that childhood doesn’t wait.
She remembered those early years, driving around town with her husband in the middle of the night while their baby refused to sleep. A Darius Rucker song used to play on the radio: “It won’t be like this for long.” They clung to those lyrics, half-exhausted, reminding themselves this season would pass. And, sure enough, it did. The problem is, no one tells you how much you’ll want some of those moments back when they’re gone. Now here he was, seven years old. Too big for Thomas the Train, too cool for most of the little toys that once cluttered the living room, yet still clinging to his stuffed pig at night. He teased his sister but protected her in that big-brother way. He could crush a chess game, run his heart out on the soccer field, and still curl up in his mom’s arms when the world felt heavy. He was straddling two worlds, not relatively little, not yet grown.
And she was straddling two emotions—celebrating and grieving at the same time. That’s the strange thing about motherhood. Every milestone feels like a victory parade and a tiny funeral. The last bottle, bedtime story, the last time she could carry her first baby. Each one is both a joy and a loss; no one prepares you for that.
The night before his birthday, she told him a secret. She asked if he knew the best day of her life. He guessed a few things, but eventually gave up. She told him it was the day he was born, the day she first became a mother, the day she realized her heart could stretch in ways she didn’t think were possible. His eyes filled with tears, and he hugged her so tight she thought maybe he understood. He told her her words made his whole body feel warm inside. She wanted him to carry that into his new year—not just the soccer wins, the laughter-filled car rides, or the memory of being held for the last time. She wanted him to remember the warmth—the kind that comes from being loved beyond measure, the kind that stays with you, even when childhood is long gone.
So she whispered her wish. That on his seventh birthday, and on every birthday after, he would know he was treasured. Even when he is taller than her and she can no longer carry him in her arms, she still holds him in her heart. Because the truth is, the last time she had him wasn’t the last. Not in the way that matters.
