bit·ter·sweet
/ˈbidərˌswēt/
adj.
a. (of food, drink or flavour) sweet with a bitter aftertaste
b. arousing pleasure tinged with sadness or pain
Dear Me,
You did it.
You cradled newborns in the quiet hours when the world was still.
You kissed soft heads, rocked restless bodies, and whispered lullabies even when your own eyes could barely stay open.
You’ve lived through the endless days, the fleeting months, the years stitched together with first words, tiny socks, and a thousand goldfish crackers.
And now… your last baby is two.
There are no more cribs to set up.
No due dates to count down to.
No bottles to wash or breastfeeding trackers to check.
And though your hands are still full, your arms feel just a little bit emptier.
It’s okay to feel that ache.
It’s okay to miss it—
the closeness, the slowness, the way you were needed in that primal, all-consuming way.
You’re not questioning the path you chose.
You’re simply remembering how it felt to love that deeply, that physically, that constantly.
And yes… sometimes you wish you could go back.
Just for one day. One night. One more snuggle on your chest.
But look at you.
You carried your babies through the beginning,
and now you’re walking beside them.
You are still their home.
Even without the diapers and bassinets.
Even when they run ahead.
Even now.
So breathe in this new season.
There will be other firsts.
There will still be magic.
And you are allowed to hold on to the beauty of the past
while opening your hands for what comes next.
You don’t have to rush.
You don’t have to “move on.”
You just have to keep loving them the way you always have—
with your whole heart.
And you do that so well.
With love and pride,
Me