He’s 51 weeks old.
That means that next week, in 7 days…he turns one.
And that’s a day I have been dreading for weeks now.
More than likely, he’s my last. Our last baby, our last first birthday…and I hate it all so much.
I’ve put off planning a party. Buying decorations. Coming up with ideas on just how to celebrate a boy so special.
I hate first birthdays. I really don’t know why. There’s just something about them…what they represent…it’s so hard for me.
Bedtimes have been a little longer lately. Holding him on my shoulder while he lays there…snuggling in…I’m soaking it up.
It goes so fast.
And the first year is probably my favorite.
We have a lot of firsts yet to come.
First words. First steps. The first day of school. He’ll be my first getting a really specialize kind of therapy in a few weeks. My youngest to get his own pair of AFOs. (The others were around 2 when they got theirs.)
I know it isn’t a big deal. I know his journey around the sun is nothing more than that, and the day on the calendar doesn’t change anything.
He’s my baby. Maybe my last. And I just love him so much.
I don’t know how to “plan his birthday”. I wish I didn’t have to. As an introvert, and a massive one at that, birthday parties are my own personal idea of hell.
I want to spend the day with him holding him and loving him. Not decorating or planning or any of the work that comes with it.
To be honest, birthdays have always hurt. And I think that’s because of my birth son. I think birthdays just never could be the same after him. There is always grief attached to it.
He’s 51 weeks old. And I’m feeling the weight of it. It’s heavy, and I don’t know how to be okay with it.
He’s my most medically fragile. A bit more complicated than his brothers are even. And we don’t know how long we’ll have with him.
Another reason I hate birthdays. I don’t want to lose him. And it’s a reality we face.
But this week, I’m going to soak him up. And enjoy him being my baby. For as long as he’ll let me.