This whole year of “firsts” for Paul also coincide with a whole year of “lasts” for my husband and I.
Paul is our fourth and last child. In our family, whether he likes it or not, Paul will forever be lovingly referred to as the baby; the youngest member in our family of six.
It’s strange to think that my family is now complete, and next year at this time, Paul won’t really be a baby any more. He’ll hopefully be walking and taking, playing with toys, and forming little toddler opinions about everything.
In church this morning, I congratulated a few new fathers in our congregation that I knew were celebrating being a father for the first time. It was then that I realized that while my husband is in fact among the “new” father crowd, Paul being only five months old, this is his last year my husband will ever hold a new baby in his arms on Father’s Day.
As Paul continues to grow each and every day, I’m finding myself overly sentimental about all the last “first” experiences I get to share with Paul. In the next few weeks, he’s more than likely going to start sitting up on his own, eating baby food, and maybe even crawling. I’m going to blink, and he’ll be walking, you just wait.
With my older three children, I was always ready and excited for them to hit the next big milestone. But with Paul, my feelings couldn’t be more opposite. I know he’s my last baby, and I’m simultaneously celebrating and mourning these last “first” moments of his life.
I’m relishing each day, begging him to take it slow and to not grow up too fast. We have a lifetime of “firsts” ahead of us, but when they’re done, they’re done. And this momma’s gonna miss them when they’re gone.
More Babbling from Emily…