When you're done having babies, you just know.
At least that's what they say.
What I know is that there's nothing more perfect in this world than a nursing baby who lets go and looks up at you to smile.
What I don't know is how to reconcile that with the feeling that I am full. Our house, our car, and our dining room table are at max capacity. Some days, I feel stretched to my limit trying to meet the needs of my children, especially when I'm up all night with the baby and the day starts with a toddler meltdown over a piece of toast.
One summer, my older kids took swim lessons at a local pool that allowed siblings to swim at no cost during lesson time. In our family, you don't turn down free pool time, but believe me: supervising a baby, toddler, and preschooler in the water by yourself every day for two weeks is not for the faint of heart.
As I was trying to distort the space-time continuum to be in three places at once, an older mother at the side of the pool caught my eye.
She looked composed in a way I couldn't even imagine, with an actual hairstyle and a bathing suit she didn't choose for its ease of nursing. She was reading in a deck chair, looking up occasionally to wave at her two junior high-age kids jumping off the diving board.
When it was time to leave, her kids would dry themselves off and carry their own stuff back to the car. They'd have a coherent conversation on the way home, and she might even have the energy to say more than a few words to her husband before collapsing into bed at night.
I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't love a day like that. But a whole life?
Every day without chubby baby thighs and milk-drunk smiles and the smell of a newborn's head?
They say when you're finished, you'll just know.
Is that true?
Right now, all I know is I'm not ready to feel the longing of the empty-handed lady in Target who tells frazzled young moms to enjoy every minute.
My husband — the pragmatist in our relationship — points out that no matter what we do, someday I'll be that lady anyway. He's right, as much as I hate to admit it.
The inescapable fact is that children grow up. Someday we'll no longer need to keep an emergency pair of tiny pants and underwear inside the glovebox of the van.
Someday we won't need a van at all.
We're still saving the baby's clothes when he outgrows them. We've always done that, filling the attic with children's clothing of every size just waiting to be hand-me-downs for a future brother or sister.
But I had no idea how hard it would be packing up a box of 3-6 month onesies and wondering if I'll ever hand them down to anyone again.
No idea how hard it would be folding all the little knit pants with footies and then shutting the box for what might be the last time.
The baby years are messy, chaotic, and exhausting, and just when you think you can't feel any more overwhelmed a stranger in Target tells you to love every minute.
I don't know what the future holds, but as I stand over this box with a roll of tape in my hand and a lump in my throat, the only thing I know for sure is that I did love every minute, after all.







































