Two pink lines. It’s positive. At once, I’m afraid and excited. Terrified and overjoyed. Thrilled
to become your mother, yet entirely unprepared for the job. This is amazing! No, wait. What
have we done? But if this is the last time I’ll get news of an impending miracle, I pray that I
will savor the excitement, that I will choose to rest in that sweet anticipation rather than be
overcome with anxiety. I will be content with simply dreaming of who you’ll be.
Two days overdue. I’ve carried the weight of new life, new hopes, new dreams, for 40 weeks
and 2 days, and I’m exhausted. I’m so ready to meet you, so impatient for the next season.
But if this is the last time I’ll carry life inside of me, I hope that I will enjoy every moment, that I
won’t wish away this miracle. I will acknowledge and be thankful for every hiccup, every kick. I
will cherish these fleeting days where my body is your home.
Two a.m. The house is dark and we’re the only ones awake. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep
in I-can’t-remember-when. It seems that, as soon as I start to drift off, you remember our
game of “Keep Awake” and set out to eliminate the possibility of rest for me. But if this is the
last time that I will rock you late at night, I want to remember the feel of your soft skin against
mine, the smell of your baby hair. I will close my eyes and breathe in all your
sweetness, and commit it to my memory forever.
Two years old. Your second birthday is here, and you are on the verge of potty-training,
speaking in paragraphs, dressing yourself, and a whole new sort of independence. Before I
know it, your new catchphrase will be “I’ll do it myself.” You won’t want my constant help,
you won’t need my undivided attention, you won’t ask to sit on my lap all day. So if this is the
last time you’ll ask me to hold you, I will hold on tightly. I won’t let go until you do.
In an abundance of love, your Heavenly Father entrusted you to me for a brief season.
There’s not a hair on your head He hasn’t numbered, not a day of your life He hasn’t
ordained. And in the perfect timing of His perfect plan, there will inevitably be
many “last times” for us.
The last time I’ll wrap you in a swaddle blanket, sweet and snug and warm.
The last time I’ll set you down on the floor and you won’t go anywhere
The last time you’ll cry when I leave the room, and be overjoyed when I return.
The last time I’ll wash those tiny onesies.
The last time you’ll mispronounce that word in that adorable way of yours.
The last time you’ll crawl into my bed at night.
The last time you’ll need me to kiss a boo-boo and make you all better.
The last time you’ll happily wave to me from a school bus window.
The last time you’ll hold my hand.
The last time I’ll tuck you in at night.
The last time you’ll need me to drive you somewhere.
The last time we’ll pick out school supplies.
The last time I’ll go to a doctor’s appointment with you.
The last time you’ll sleep in that bedroom before leaving this nest.
The last time I’ll be the most important person in your life.
And, inevitably, heartbreakingly, surely, the last time you’ll hear me say, “I love you.” Trust
me when I tell you that I am sure of my eternal future, and I await my heavenly home with joy.
But, trust me when I tell you that no one can predict their last day on earth, and the memory
of our last “I love you” will be bittersweet for a long time. So if this is the last time I get to tell
you, I want you to hear it. I want you to know that I mean it.
I love you.
I am proud of you.
I am so thankful that you have been mine and that I have been yours.
And I am consciously choosing to savor every moment I have with you—every joyful,
challenging, exciting, mundane, stressful, beautiful moment—because mothering you is a
tremendous blessing, and I don’t want to miss a single “last time.”