Last week was my first baby's second birthday, but it was my birthday, in a way, as well. If you know me, you know my birthday is actually in December (2 days from celebrations of the most significant birthday in the history of the world!), but that's not what I mean.
|The Wagner Family is having a red-wagon-themed year!|
|It was fun to see him blow out his own candles, this year!|
|Finger-lickin' good stuff!|
I find myself more sentimental about my first son's birthdays than I imagine I'll be about that of my second son or any other children with whom God may (I hope!) bless me. I attribute this feeling to the same fact I blame for my obsessing over my first pregnancy, my first baby nursery, et. al. And don't we all take more pictures of that first tiny little person to make his home in our arms?
As a firstborn, myself, I still feel sympathy with those seemingly slighted later children whose parents can't seem to find five pictures from their childhood, while myriad boxes cannot contain the excess pictorial records of their older siblings' infant years. But I'm starting to understand why.
The obvious preoccupation with mommying other children may play a role, but I don't think that's the main issue at hand.
The reason is this: Not only was a baby born two years ago, but a mother was born as well. During that first pregnancy, I wasn't just reading about my first baby's development and planning for his arrival--I was truly readying myself for becoming a mom to however many children I would have.
So with my first child's birthday, each year, I celebrate not just the birth of a child, but also the birth of a mom.
This is a very sentimental
reminding you that the days may be long, but the years (at least these first two, for me!) are really way too short!