Lately I’ve been thinking of how I manage the passing of time differently with my two children. I’ve always been told that a mother loves her children equally. I first felt this the day I introduced my newly born daughter to my nearly 2 year old son. There’s a miraculous expansion that makes my love enough–enough for my babies regardless of their age, number or location. These past few days I am realizing the weight of how I love my children differently.
My firstborn has forever been my best-foot-forward announcement to the world that I am a mother. I have eagerly anticipated each milestone, always cheering him onward. We take our firsts together and celebrate by keeping our gazes ahead. I have memorized every last inch of his flesh yet always feel amazed at just how quickly it changes.
My last one, my daughter, shows me how a mother’s body remembers her babies. Almost as an extension of my own body, I can easily recall their soft folds, intricate fingers, pillowy lips. But my last one will always trail a sense of longing in my life because there will be no more coming after. Somehow love full with anticipation and pride is so completely different that love full with surrender and savoring.
Our second and final baby is perpetually held in the balance of receiving my divided attention and inheriting every last moment of savoring imaginable. He is the baby that moves my love forward and she, always slowing it down.