By Jessica Rassette for Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers
There is nothing better than a baby bundle. A lump of baby all bundled up on your chest with their frog legs curled up underneath them. Chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, their big fat cheeks covered in drool just begging to be munched on. Yep, nothing is better than a baby bundle.
I’ve been doing the baby bundle with our youngest a lot lately. He’s five months old and my baby bundle days are numbered. Any chance I get I grab that boy around his big ol’ belly and squeeze him as close to me as I can. Squeeze and tickle and coo and squeeze and rub his soft face; oh, the squeezes. He has two older brothers he’s been admiring for a while now, and he is just one gutsy, coordinated moment away from crawling after them. I know when that happens he’ll be all “pssht mom, no time for bundling this baby, I’m crawling!”
It’s ok, I’ve been through it before, but the hurt is a little more scorching this time. He is our last baby. While we haven’t done anything official to ensure he’s our last one, in my heart, I know. This is it. My husband knows it too; he was, after all, my biggest cheerleader when I asked my doctor about getting my tubes tied. But in the end I couldn’t go through with it. I gave a really lame excuse, like, “I don’t feel qualified to make decisions for my future self.” But really, I am scared of being done making babies.