It came and left just as it does every other year.
The difference this year was that it was my last.
It was my last “first Christmas” ever.
I will no longer bust out the Baby’s First Christmas onsie and wash it furiously the night before because I forgot that a baby must wear his/her Baby’s First Christmas onsie
on his/her first Christmas.
It’s cool. I know it’s time to move on, but my heart hasn’t quite caught up to my head.
Maybe if she weren’t so stinkin’ cute it would be easier.
Maybe if she weren’t so cuddly it would be easier.
Maybe if she didn’t look at me with her big doe eyes and sweet misplaced dimples,
it would be easier.
It’s hard to tell if any of those things would have made this easier- I doubt it.
I went to a wedding shower a few days ago and I got asked a lot about being a mama and how many kids we had… now, and I would think to myself, just enough.
When we got married, Mark wanted two kids and I wanted three.
He knew only two kids wasn’t going to happen (I really wanted three), so we had settled on three.
Both of us felt really comfortable with that plan, but never in our wildest dreams did we assume that our hearts wouldn’t be quite full enough until number four came along.
She was planned. She was wanted. She was what our family needed.
Never has that been felt so deep as it did this past Christmas…
my last “first” Christmas.