Awkward Mom vs. The Last Firsts

Super Baby is the last Super Baby.

Probably.

Life is long and mysterious, so I'll add that probably in there for now. You know, just in case Jor-El has another pod that he would like to send to the Midwest sometime soon. Barring that, the Supers are officially a team of 5, and number 5 will be turning 1 this coming Sunday. Happy Birthday, Super Baby!

Wait, what? 

Slow down! 

This wasn't yesterday? 

So, this is where I'm supposed to battle Nostalgia for a couple hours and talk about how fast the first year goes. And it does. It so totally does. We all know the first year goes fast. I mean, it all goes fast, but it stands to reason that first year would fly. You've heard it before. You've done it before. And watching me battle Nostalgia for like the 5874th time sounds about as exciting as battling Paint-Drying. Yawn. So, guess what? I'm not gonna make you watch that. Also, I don't actually feel like battling Nostalgia right now, and that's why I think I am experiencing the Last Firsts.

I can't remember when Super Baby started rolling. Or scooting. Or sleeping through the night. Or when we finally remembered to feed her some solids. Or when that first tooth came in. Or when she grasped a toy or found her toes or object permanence something or other. I would look in her baby book, but, oh yeah, she doesn't have one. So, I can't really tell you any milestone whatsoever. No, that isn't true. I remember her changing my life completely and infusing this household with a grace it has never before experienced. And that happened on June 24, 2017. Other than that, it's all a blur. A beautiful, relaxed, rose-colored blur of a year that I have enjoyed on a level I have never enjoyed a first year. The last first year.

This last first year has been long. Luxuriously long, like a bath at a fancy spa or a summer afternoon. It might have been 5 years or a lifetime; I lost count somewhere around week 2. It's been eternal and ethereal. There have been so many hours to just stare into her ocean colored eyes and to kiss her fingers. So many hugs. So much time to be moved by her sleeping breath, tattooing each dream shift onto my soul. So many moments just laying on the floor, watching her watch me or her siblings orbiting around her. So much time to memorize her giggles, so many days matching the beat of her leg thumps to my heartbeat. Again and again and again.

Did time slow down just for her? Perhaps God wanted to give her a gift. A gift for this one who will never having anything new or hers? But no. He's given her a million other gifts. This one was for me. This year was no slower or faster than all the others, I just finally had the wisdom to enjoy it.

And I'm not saying I spent the whole year wrapped in a rainbow, romping in an idyllic sprinkle field with some unicorns. (Although that does sound like a plan for next spring that I should really get on.)  No. There were plenty of hard and awful moments this year. Life is life, there's no changing its ebb and flow. But, you see, I've learned to surf over the years. I've learned to count to 10. I've learned to stay in the moment. And I've learn to live in the moments between the moments, where the wind stills and sunshine lengthens and all is finally peace. The peace of your sleepy child's eye. And I've learned to visit there often. Even if it is just for a moment between moments.

That's what Super Baby has brought to my life; an entire last first year that has felt like 12. 26. 57. A lifetime. I feel like I've spent 39 years in stress and anxiety and worry and frustration, and then she came and I feel like I've had 39 more years of peace and calm and relaxation and contentment. All jammed into 1 year. Yeah, I know. Don't ask me how that math works. I think she's using new math.

Or magic. 

It's probably magic. 

She's new and she's old. She just got here and she's been here forever. I know her completely and she's still a mystery. Miracles are that way; they make their own rules. The last firsts are still firsts. They're still exciting and beautiful, and they totally should be put in a baby book somewhere. (I really need to get on that...) But the last firsts are lasts too. Not her lasts, mind you. My lasts. My last first tooth. My last first step. My last baby.

My last baby.

There's grief in that. Of course there is grief in that. Change is painful and change is hard. But from change comes trees and flowers and butterflies and rainbows. (Not the ones in sprinkle fields with unicorns but give me time, I'm working on that one.) Change is the foundation of parenthood because from change comes people. From change comes people.

And what magnificent people are coming. 

That's the secret, isn't it? Parenthood is one big last first. A push out of the nest, a letting go, a change that pulls and twists and hurts. And it's so very short and it's so very long and it's so very much a miracle that makes its own rules. Each child, each change, has taught me something. Super Oldest taught me to be patient. Super 1st Grader taught me to be creative. Super Kindergartener taught me to be strong. Super Preschooler taught me to be calm. And Super Baby taught me to be graceful. Not that kind of graceful; I'm still totally awkward and I still trip 14 times a day. No, not that kind. She taught me to be full of Grace.

Grace to go from this:

To this:

In a year of last firsts and to feel every single glorious second of it. Yes, Grace. So very Full of Grace.

Happy Birthday, Super Baby, you beautiful graceful wonderful miraculous last first!