Assume the Perpendicular

Eleanor in her Moby, 6 days old

This morning I was grabbing something out of the baby’s closet, and I notice the Moby wrap laying all crumpled in a basket. It suddenly struck me that I couldn’t remember the last time I had put her in it. I used to use it every day, in the beginnings for naps, and later while I did chores. Had it been weeks? A month? Two months? When she was a newborn there were days where I never even bothered to take the wrap off, she was in and out of it so much. I tucked her in it the first time we left the house after she was born. At some point as she grew heavier I suppose I started phasing it out. She started taking most of her naps on our bed, and I started putting her in the Ergo on my back for chores, and now I put her down on the ground or in her jumparoo or crib to play when before I would have put her in the wrap. The last time I put her in the Moby wrap, however long ago that was, was the last time, possibly the last time ever, and I didn’t notice it. I didn’t realize.

When I was pregnant I read the poem “Let Me Hold You Longer,” from the book by the same name, by Karen Kingsbury. (You can read it here, but you should probably grab a box of tissues first.) It is all about how as parents we celebrate our children’s firsts, their first steps, first words, first days of school but we often do not realize when their lasts pass us by. The last time we change their diaper. The last time they let us rock them to sleep. The last time they need us to kiss their boo boos.

Since I read it I have thought often about the poem and about Eleanor’s lasts. As I looked down at that Moby wrap, a constant companion of the newborn days, it hit me like a punch to the gut that another last had occurred without my knowing. She is only seven months old, and yet there have already been so many of them. The last time I saw her gummy grin before her first teeth broke through. The last time I washed her small sized cloth diapers. The last time she fit in the Woombie. The last time we bathed her in the sink with the Puj tub. The last time she wore the gown we brought her home from the hospital in. The last time I got up during the night to feed her in the nursery. The last time I put her in the Moby.

It’s all so bittersweet. The lasts mean she is growing and changing, just as she should, but I can’t help but echo Kingsbury’s sentiments. I wish I would have known that the lasts were occurring, so that I could have appreciated them more. I wish I would have known the last time I put her in that soft pink homecoming gown so that I could have paused and taken in just how she looked in it. I wish I would have known the last time she needed me to get up with her during the night to rock her and nurse her, because I’m sure I would have held her closer to me for just a bit longer in the dimly lit nursery. I wish I would have known the last time I put her in the Moby wrap with her chest against my chest and pulled the fabric up around her head while she napped so that I could have attempted to memorize just how it felt to have her tiny body held so close to mine.