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The Last Baby

Another thing I’ve struggled with lately is the acknowledgment that Valorie is my last baby. I don’t know if it’s the fact that one of my babies had growing up stolen away from them, or the fact that no matter how many babies I have, one will be missing. But the idea of her being my last has really affected me in more ways than I expected.

It means the last pregnancy, the last labor, the last postpartum hospital stay, the last newborn phase, the last of my nursing days, the last time we’ll have little one in diapers, the last first steps, last first words. And while she’s still so new, and so small, I am sad to realize that the chapter of my adult life that included creating, carrying, and welcoming new life, is closing page by page as she grows.

I’ve spent seven years in this phase of life and with each day that now passes, each milestone she reaches, my identity will begin to shift from a mother of babies into a mother of children. It’s a difficult change to accept for many women I’m sure, but it’s exacerbated when you’ve lost a baby. In some way it feels like the further you get from your child bearing years, the further you get from them and the woman you were when they lived.

Valorie is our pot of gold, our baby after our rainbow, the final piece to a puzzle that will still never be complete. It’s bittersweet.

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