“There’s a last time for everything,” crooned Brad Paisley from my satellite radio. I immediately set an alert for the song, being a fan of both Brad Paisley and intentional, meaningful songwriting. I didn’t realize the first time I heard this song earlier this summer how it would be the perfect soundtrack to this phase of my own life.
Last night, we had one of our babies sleep in a handmade cradle in our room for the last time. We didn’t even know it.
You see, we have active babies. Big sister was moved to her room and her crib at 6 weeks old because she had mastered the art of wriggling out of her swaddle and sticking her arms between the slats, resulting in slat indentions on her tiny face. Not one to be outdone by big sister, little sister has mastered the same talent at 5 weeks old.
After discovering this for the third day in a row, I told my husband it was time to move her to her crib in her room. “If that’s what you want to do,” he said. And while I’m longing for the normalcy of listening for sounds through a baby monitor, my heart aches knowing this is the last time we will pack up this family heirloom until the next generation of babies needs a place to sleep.
This led me to think even more about these lasts. I realized that I’ve felt baby hiccups from inside my belly, cut tiny hospital bands off of my babies, and stocked a drawer full of newborn diapers for the last time.
Of course, this also leads me to think about the Firsts to come. The first time I see my girls playing together. The first time I watch my youngest take off across the living room. First days of school, first recitals, first Christmas programs. It helps ease the ache of these Lasts, but also reminds me that there are more Lasts coming.
“Gettin’ woke up at 5 am to see if Santa came,
There’s a Last Time for Everything.”