She’s two.
We blew out candles and sang off-key and watched her proudly say “I’m two!” with fingers she’s still learning to hold up. And while she twirled in her birthday dress and laughed with sticky hands, I felt something else sitting quietly beside the joy.
She’s two.
And I won’t have more babies.
It’s not a new thought, but birthdays have a way of making it louder. As I watch my kids grow, and as I fall more in love with the little people they’re becoming, there’s also an ache I can’t ignore. Because I would’ve loved another baby.
I really would’ve.
I say that quietly, because saying it out loud sometimes feels like opening a door I’ve been trying to keep shut. I’m not planning for one. I won’t have one. That’s the reality. But the longing? It’s still there. Not always loud—but present. A soft tug when I see a newborn. A little ache when I pack away the baby things. A pause when I hear someone say, “you never know.”
But I do know.
Our family feels full in so many ways. My hands, my days, my heart—they’re all spoken for. Life is expensive. Time is limited. We’ve made decisions with our whole lives in mind. But sometimes, even the right decisions—especially the right ones—still break your heart a little.
And this isn’t coming from a desperate, unfinished place.
Just a soft, quiet one.
The kind that lives in someone who knows how fleeting the early years are.
Someone who didn’t rush them, but still wishes they lasted longer.
Someone who packed away the last onesie with shaky hands and didn’t say anything out loud because there didn’t seem to be anything to say.
I look at my baby and realize—she’s not a baby anymore.
She’s fierce and opinionated and funny and wild. She doesn’t need me in the same way. And I know this is the point. This is what growth looks like. But sometimes, I wish I could freeze it. Not forever. Just for a moment. Just to sit in that rocking chair a little longer, just to hold her as she drifts off—without knowing it’s the last time.
Because I loved being pregnant, I loved the baby days. Not every moment. But the essence of them. The slowness. The closeness. The way I was everything she needed.
My daughter is two, and she’s the last.
She doesn’t know that. She just knows she’s loved—wildly and completely. But I know. And that knowledge carries a weight. Because every new thing she does means we’re further from the baby days. Every milestone she hits is a last for me. The last time someone in my house learns to walk. The last time I’ll hear a first word. The last time I’ll nurse, rock, swaddle, carry on my chest. The last time I’ll be someone’s whole world in that tiny, baby way.
I’m so grateful for her. For both of my children. But this birthday marks more than another year around the sun. It’s another step away from the baby years I loved so much. Another reminder that we are moving forward, whether I’m ready or not.
I catch myself trying to memorize them both more closely now. Trying to slow down what I can’t actually control. With her, I linger longer—because I know she’s the last. And with him, I look back, realizing how much of those early days were a blur. I stare a little longer. Breathe them in when they’re close. Let the mess pile up just to sit beside them on the floor.
So today I celebrate her—my vibrant, curious, wild little girl. I hold her tighter, knowing this is the only time I’ll have a two-year-old again.
Because some part of me is grieving—grieving the baby I won’t have, while fiercely loving the two I do.
—Dalia 🤍
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