The Last of the Littles

The Ache, as Sarah so aptly names it in this post
 has been on my heart a lot lately.  I remind myself that I'm being selfish, that there are many out there who can't have any children, or can only have one, or have had the heartbreak of losing a child.  Yet, The Ache remains.  I sniff Jules until she likely thinks I'm some type of animal, and cover her in kisses until I'm afraid I'll chap her delicate new-baby skin.  I stroke her hair until the oil from my hands becomes visibly apparent, and I pat her back in comfort until my hand falls asleep.  I am cherishing her. 

Why am I over-doing it (or at least, paying more attention while I do so) with Jules?  Because she is my last.  The earlier link mentions how she was never one to want a house full of children, and I agree with that point.  However, I did always know I would be happy to just be at home (although finances don't allow me to do that only).  I always wanted four children:  two boys and two girls.  I got four children, but boys weren't in my future, for who knows what reason.  Girls are so...girly!  I can dress them in flowers and bows, or pull off stripes and solids, with hair accessories and matching shiny shoes or sandals.  I love my girls, and I love my four.  And yet, it's so difficult to know I'm closing a chapter of my life. 

Jules has outgrown her newborn clothes already.  I find myself anxious, wondering how long I'll be able to nurse her, not wanting to stop, yet knowing it's always been somewhat of a challenge for me.  To the contrast, I wonder what to do with all the stuff I will be finished with in too short of a time.  I've had that aquarium baby swing for nine years, and the mint green Boppy, and the white bassinet sitting on a pair of dining room chairs in my bedroom (and she's all too quickly growing out of it; only another 6 weeks remain at most).  What will I do with the baby Tubby I've used for each of my children's baths until they could sit up?  What on earth do I do with all this STUFF?  Because to me, it's not stuff; it's memories.  Memories of the blessings I've always wanted and what I've been given. 

I know I've loved watching my older children grow.  I know I can't afford twelve children, nor would my body handle twelve pregnancies.  I know I want to give as much love and attention to the children I have, but I will always harbor the want, the wish, the dream of what it was like to have those babies.  I know new and wonderful things are in the chapters ahead, but just as I dread turning the final page of a novel I've been emotionally engrossed in, it's difficult to turn the page of the baby stage--especially now that it seems I've gotten that burping strategy down just right, the perfect napping schedule, and recognition of their various scents and callings.  Perhaps I can use it on the grandkids...in twenty years.