My baby girl is nearly eight months old and she’s not really a BABY anymore. I mean, she is a baby, she totally is–but also she can almost crawl and her teeth are starting to poke through and she’s babbling and she’s starting to feel sturdy and strong.
She’s still sleeping in our bedroom, but only because I want her to be. She still lies in my arms in that baby position while I feed her a bottle, but only because that’s how I like it.
She’s what I call an Old Baby, between about six months and one year:
At this age, they’ve moved well beyond this stage, the phase of holy sh*t please sleep longer than two hours; please gain enough ounces to satisfy the pediatrician; awwwww was that a smile or just gas; oh my god is she ever going to open her eyes; the whole family’s life is in a fog of newborn-ness.
But she’s not yet in this phase: WOW LOOK she took her first step; everything is about to get out of control; did she just say dada; is it time to introduce her to cheese; can we call her a toddler yet.
A friend of mine said the other day that eight months is her favorite baby age because they’re smiley and tend to be pretty happy and they’re showing somewhat of a personality, but they can’t really disagree with mom and dad yet, they can’t talk, and, most importantly, they can’t move.
I love this stage, too, although there’s something to be said for all the phases—and there are also BAD things to be said about all the phases, if we’re being honest. (Newborns are great because they sleep a lot of the time, but very tough because someone that doesn’t include sleeping at night, for example.) (And 2.5 year olds, like my son, are great because they are truly showing their unique personalities and they’re funny, but very tough because … well, because they are truly showing their unique personalities, which in my son’s case is QUITE stubborn and some might even say violent but that’s a whole other blog post.)
But what makes me sad about my second kid being an Old Baby child is this: She’s no longer a Little Baby! And because she’s our last kid (if there’s another HE/SHE/THEY WERE AN ACCIDENT but I promise I love them!!!), I’ll never again have a Little Baby.
Every time she’s finished with something, I get a twinge of sadness because it’s the last time I’ll ever experience that particular phase. When my older kid passes through a stage, it’s kinda sad but I always take solace in the fact that I get to do it again. Like when he moved from a bassinet into a crib, I had that “awwwww he’s so grown up!” feeling … but then we put the bassinet in the attic, knowing we’d take it down again if we were lucky enough to have a second baby. When my younger baby grew out of the bassinet at around four months old, I knew I’d never again sleep with a bassinet next to my bed. We didn’t put it in the attic; we put it in the car and took it back to my friend’s house, ready to move onto another family with a newborn.
Around the same time we said goodbye to the bassinet, we packed up the swaddles and the newborn clothes and the three-month clothes and even some of the six-month outfits. And instead of stuffing them into a storage bin, thinking “if we have another boy, we can use all these clothes again — and if we have a girl, we can use ALMOST all of them but honestly what was I thinking buying these brown outfits I’m not going to make any daughter of mine wear this color” … instead, I almost cried.
Instead, I put them into paper bags and labeled them, then put them in the closet, where they’ll wait until one of my friends has a baby girl or I bring ‘’em to Goodwill. Instead, I stood there, holding the Old Baby in my arms, thinking about how I’ll never again take the white onesie with smiling clouds out of the drawer, and never again attempt to swaddle a baby before eventually giving up and using one of those Velcro ones.
I’m never going to use the baby swing again, never going to use the tiny stroller attachment, never going to wear a baby in a front pack (at least not MY baby). I feel a twinge of sadness about all of those “never agains.” But, of course, there are also things I’m PUMPED that I’ll never do again.
- Breastfeeding. Hallelujah and good riddance to swollen breasts, leaking nipples, mastitis and being really freaking cold all the time because you’re never really wearing a shirt.
- Waking up every two hours alllll through the night. (Although tbh I did enjoy having an excuse to read my Kindle at 2am.)
- Worrying about how fragile those tiny little newborns appear. I like a sturdy eight monther!
- Trying to figure out how much to feed a baby, when to feed them, whether they’re getting enough, when to start solids… who knew eating is so complicated??
- Ditto on sleep complications.
- And finally, drumroll please, good riddance to being pregnant and throwing up every day for 20 weeks!!!
I know everyone feels differently— some people mourn the end of breastfeeding and don’t give a hoot about saying goodbye to the bassinet. What tugs at your heartstrings?