A few weeks ago, I noticed that my son was extra fussy when I nursed him. He would kick and fight, and was generally unhappy. I decided to pump to see how much milk I was producing. After waiting ten minutes before my let down even started, I was able to fill a bottle to about 2 ounces from both breasts.

I kept trying, but eventually decided to supplement a few times with formula so that I wouldn’t starve Jamie.

In the meantime, I gulped water and ate anything with oatmeal in it to try and boost my supply. I wondered if my days of nursing over forever. Was it the end of an era? We aren’t planning to have any other children, and I had hoped for a little more pomp and circumstance when my breastfeeding days were over.

Eventually my supply picked back up. Now I can’t stop thinking about how everything I do with Jamie will be the last time I do something with my own baby again. That “end of breastfeeding forever” scare put me in a weird space. Now so many mundane situations and milestones seem so significant because this is my last baby.

Jamie sat up in a shopping cart for the first time by himself today.
Aww! That’s the last first time one of my babies will ever sit in a shopping cart for the first time!

He pulled himself up onto the edge of the bed and held on for a few minutes.
Aww! That’s the last first time one of my babies will ever pull up on the edge of the bed for the first time!

You see how this could be anxiety inducing?

I’m trying to focus on Jamie’s growth as the beginning of our family’s new chapter rather than the end of my baby mama journey. Our vacation this summer wasn’t his last first vacation, but an introduction to a family tradition. His trying to crawl is getting him ready for fun trips to the playground like we used to do with Ayva. The babbling he’s doing as he’s trying to talk is introducing us to his silly personality. He’s growing up, and it’s a good thing.

To be perfectly transparent, I’m still working through these feelings. I haven’t fully bought into the idea that my last baby growing up is a good thing. I mean, I know it is, but there’s still that pang in my heart that makes me want to slow time way down so I can savor this baby as long as possible.

Jamie’s not having it. He’s ready to grow, move, and firmly take his place in this family.

My last baby will always be my last baby. My second child. My only boy. For now, I’ll hold tight to the moments that he lays in my arms and lets me rub his curls. I’ll take a million pictures and record tons of video. I’ll celebrate each moment, no matter how fleeting it feels, and be grateful for the chance to have a last baby at all.