My perfect little crotchgoblinita.
You are growing up so much. So fast.
I know better, by now, than to be surprised at how quickly time flies with you and your brother.
I know, by now, that this is both my blessing and my curse as a mother; to be constantly torn between the excitement of watching you come into your own, and the heart-wrenching process of letting go of you a little more each day.
You are not the baby that made me a mother, but you are the child that will give me the gift of all the “lasts”. I am addicted to the bittersweet moments that mark your every milestone. Yours will be the last juicy baby rolls I will smooch. It is the touch of your sweet, pudgy and curious little hands on my skin as you breastfeed that will bring tears to my eyes when we close this chapter of our lives.
For my breasts will never know another touch like yours.
It’s the perfect way your head can rest in that little nook between my neck and my shoulders that you will soon outgrow. How your perfect baby breath feels, so soft and steady. The purest of all joys. My little bebita. Everything about you is small, round and cozy. Yet it contains the vastness of the stars.
And just look at how perfectly the curve of my nose fits the roundness of your head. Puzzle pieces that will forever fit. You and your brother.
You will find other nooks of my body upon which to lay your head. And your hands may not stay pudgy, but they will hopefully remain curious. And your divine baby rolls will likely melt away (
) but I will smooch you in ways that will embarrass you until you are well “too grown” for it.
The push and pull of you, my perfect last baby. You are the sweetest of heartaches. The purest of loves. It suffocates and lifts me at the same time. I will never get over how much I will miss every stage of you. Every version of you. All the multitudes of you.
Except for the teething and stinky diapers. Those you can outgrow tomorrow.
