I sat in the rocker holding my fourteen month old daughter up against my chest. I rocked back and forth exhausted, and I tapped her little back in time. I was so tired, and the aggravation of sleep interrupted did not escape me. It didn’t help that I felt like I had not been totally rested in seven years, the amount of time I had been a mother thus far. As I rocked her small frame she let out a rattling cough, I compassionately brushed my hand against her head, fuzzy with new hair, and she hugged up against me, closer still, even though she was asleep. It occurred to me that although being ripped from my slumber and perpetually exhausted, I existed in a phase of life that would pass very quickly. Indeed each moment would never pass me by again. Each moment would be its own last time.
I knew at that very moment my daughter was fourteen months old, but the next day would bring her even closer to fifteen months. She’d never be this young again. Soon she would be two. Then six. Then sixteen. You get the point.
Each moment was there, but then it was gone. So everything I did with my children was the last time for that specific moment, and never again would I have that exact, precious morsel of time back. Made me want to savor it all the more.
Then I was reminded that this was my last baby, and that made it even further bittersweet. She would be the last baby I nourished with milk made from my own body, and once her small body grew into that of a little girl, I would never again rock an infant in this recliner at 3am. The moment would have passed, and like sand from an hourglass there would be no getting it back.
The thing was you couldn’t really know which moment would be your last of anything, so you had to treat each one as if it would never happen again. You had to approach it as if it were the last time.
The last time to rock a sick baby.