I don't really want to keep him tiny - do I?
The grief and joy of baby's first birthday.
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TW: baby’s first birthday; medical trauma and infant loss (in preface only)
Thank you to those who contributed to my thinking on this post through their interaction with a Note I posted a few weeks ago (which you can view HERE). Thanks to
in particular for her reflections on the huge shifts experienced by parents in the first year after baby is born.Preface
My baby is about to turn one.
My first thought is, how on earth is that possible when he was literally born yesterday and is still a snuggly newborn.
And then I remember that he is not, in fact, a snuggly newborn anymore - but a semi-independent toddler who zooms around the house nonstop all day everyday, exploring his world and chasing his cats.
He is growing - fast - and my heart is struggling to keep up.
I have found his impending first birthday bringing about a lot of introspection and self-reflection; I think it’s natural to think back to ‘this time last year’. This is a milestone that a lot of mamas and littles have gone through together throughout history, so I don’t think I’m the first to be finding this season challenging.
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So, I have written a little short story, a memoir of sorts, to share my experience as well as process the grief and joy I find myself working through this month. It is a little different to my usual writing here at Telling Their Tales. But, I hope that I have kept it without place or time so that my experience can be projected back into any historical time period as the reflections of any mother approaching her little one’s first birthday. I hope to connect with mothers throughout history, bonded with them as I am through this milestone moment.
Before diving in, I would like to acknowledge, briefly, all the mamas and littles who never made this milestone. This was super common in the early medieval age, the period I usually write about, and is sadly still happening in our time too. I am particularly conscious that without the blessing that modern medicine is, I would likely have been one of those women who died without ever holding their little one in their arms. I suffered a major obstetric haemorrhage (MOH) immediately after my son was born, the leading cause of maternal death in history and today. I ended up losing two litres of blood, which is four times the amount classified as an MOH, and was absolutely terrified. The whole story is too personal, too intimate, for me to share more here, but it took me closer than ever before to the countless women who died in childbirth across history.
I am so, so grateful that I am here to celebrate my little one’s first birthday, knowing that it’s not something to be taken for granted.
Without further ado…
We didn’t have that ‘love at first sight’ experience that everyone had told me to expect. Your birth was so fast and so furious, so enveloped by pain and sudden illness, that I couldn’t really grasp the reality of my transition into motherhood in its immediate aftermath.
There you were, a little bundle, swaddled in your soft white blanket, nestled in the crib in the corner of the room.
And there I was, turned away, unable to face you, unable to hold you.
It was your daddy who’d convinced me to let you in. You’d grasped his finger as they’d whisked you away from me, to check that you were ok. You weren’t crying, they kept saying; they wanted better crying. You’d held onto your daddy as they’d carried you across the room, never letting go. It’s just a reflex, they’d said. All babies do it; it doesn’t mean anything. But you’d held onto him so tightly; did you know, already, who he was?
Once they’d left us alone, just the three of us, he’d passed you to me, told me to hold you for just a little while. I was so uncomfortable. What do I do now? I hadn’t wanted to be a mother, but now here I was, your mother. I didn’t know what to do with you as you lay there, curled in my arms as if it was the most natural place for you to be, your first home, your safe place, your deep blue eyes gazing up through heavy, blinking lids.
That was when we first met. And it wasn’t love at first sight.
But, over time, we’ve become inseparable: and I’d fight a bear to protect you.
You are my heart, somehow outside of my body and toddling around on little chunky legs, grasping at anything and everything within your reach.
I find myself grieving the baby you once were. The tiny little one swamped by your clothes, even your skin looking too big for you. I miss the way you used to move your head gently from side to side, craning to see or hear something invisible to the rest of us. I miss the mad newborn reflex, when your arms would shoot out from your tiny body. How your head would rest heavy in my hand as I burped you after a feed. How you’d wake for just moments at a time, the effort of feeding sending you straight back to sleep.
Now that you’re almost one year old, you seem like a grownup in miniature - with a few infantile quirks that remind me of your newness. You love to play: sharing is a current favourite, passing leaves or pieces of grass to me, but with the expectation that I pass them back almost immediately. You take so much joy from the world around you, a helpful reminder for me to slow down and soak it in too. You’re hungry for more, more, more, always wanting to do the next thing once you’ve mastered a skill.
I think back to those middle of the night moments that marked our first few months together, when the whole world was asleep - but not us. It was just the two of us together, snuggled up, cosy and warm. Those feeding moments were so special: only I could do this for you, and day upon day we would stop whatever we were doing to have this time together, reunited bodily as we’d been before your birth, one person again.
Other nights were filled with visceral, almost animal frustration when you wouldn’t sleep, when you cried and cried and cried, but I was so bone tired I could have slept standing up. Your daddy would take you for walks, you would fall asleep, and then you’d wake as soon as you got home. Sometimes it was contact that you wanted, cuddles with the one who had held you close for nine months, but I was so weary that I couldn’t risk falling asleep on you. I couldn’t give you what you wanted, and you wouldn’t give me what I wanted, and we were locked in our tears, both of us.
Our tears often mirrored each other. You found it just as hard to see me cry as I did when you sobbed. You would touch my face, point to the tears rolling down my cheeks, look confused at your daddy. What’s wrong with mummy, I imagined you saying in your breathy little voice. Tiredness. Frustration. Adjustment. That’s what was wrong with mummy. But it’s not your fault, little one. Your tears would often prompt my own, as if our bodies were still linked by that life cord that had connected us from your very first moments. I find it remarkable that the suffering of another, of a child, can be felt in one’s own body. Your pain has become my pain, and I would do anything to stop it.
I am grieving these moments - all of them, even the hard ones - as I see you changing and growing. I don’t really want to keep you tiny… But I do. I really do. I find so much joy in watching you learn new skills and move about the world, your world, but I miss the time when it was just us two: just you and me, together. It was cosy, our bodies snuggled up together, inside and outside, one.
I realise that I can’t stop you from growing, and I don’t really want to, deep down. After all, it’s all these moments of growth that I delight in: your first words, your faltering attempts to walk, your eagerness to play with your cats. It is my job, as your mama, to nurture you on this journey, to prepare you to fly the nest one day, not keep you here with me forever.
But I can allow space to grieve the changing seasons, the shift from tiny newborn to independent toddler. It is ok to call it grief, I’m learning, mourning the loss of one life stage as we move onto the next. That’s the tough thing about time: we can’t turn it back. We can’t go back to those early days; they are gone, now just memories and photographs. It’s ok to grieve the changes - but I must remember to make space for the joy, for the growth, for movement. I can’t allow the grief to overwhelm, or I will not be present in the now.
And it is such a beautiful now.
Happy first birthday little man. We love you more than you can ever know.
Postscript
This story is dedicated to all the mamas who have gone before me, whether they celebrated their little’s first birthday or not. I am so grateful for your wisdom and experience, and I am honoured to be called a mother alongside you.
If you are able, I would love to hear your reflections on how your heart felt when your littles turned one, and whether anything in my story resonated with you.
Similar posts you might also enjoy:
This essay forms part of my contribution to the Sparkle on Substack Essay Club, hosted by
. It’s essay 4/24.
This brings back so many memories! My babies are 9 and 10, but those first months never really leave you. Congratulations on birthday #1
Thank you ❤️ - yes, a break from the chaos is always welcome!!