Your last baby will eat Cheerios off the floor

Your last baby will wear hand me downs
and play with worn out toys
and grace 3 whole pages of a memory book

Your last baby will not feel as heavy when you carry him to bed

Or as needy when he wants more milk

Or as exhausting when he cries in the middle of the night

Your last baby will test your patience. And your marriage. He’ll sneak into your bed more often, kick off the covers and take up all the space

He’ll need more kisses. Longer bedtime stories. More bath bubbles, more peanut butter, more peek-a-boos and more silly songs. More of your time and all of your attention. And you won’t mind. Because you know he’s the last

Your last baby will make you sob over the sink as you wash your last bottle

And fall apart when you fold his last little sleeper

You’ll tear up while loading his tricycle into the trunk to give to a neighbor

And ugly cry in the car after drop-off on his first day of preschool

Your last baby will give you your very last Eskimo kiss

Your last “maaahma” in a soft sleepy baby voice

Your last little neck nuzzle and your very very last tiny hand hold

Your last baby will break your heart

And fill it up. Again and again and again

But no matter how big he gets

He will always always always be your baby

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